


On the run

by wearwind



Series: Choice of the Champion [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fenris is a sailor, Gen, I mean a lot of drama, Kirkwall's Chantry is destroyed, Leading up to the Inquisition plotline, Life after terrorism, Mage PTSD, Post-Canon, Post-DA2, Responsibility, keeping a relationship during the war is difficult, ships, the best ship is Isabela's ship, what now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8398411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: A Champion is not a honourable title; is a right of blood soaked into the land, one that alters the lives of everyone around for better or for worse. A gift, or a curse, when the world is faling to pieces? And what is the responsibility of the banished Champion? After the events in Kirkwall, Hawke and Fenris flee the city and cross the Waking Sea, confronting the life they had before with the life past the cataclysm.First part of the "Choice of the Champion" series, meant to cover Hawke's storyline between Kirkwall and Adamant. "On the run" deals with the direct fallout of the Kirkwall battle and Hawke's journey to Ferelden. Finished, will post chapters regularly. Subscribe for updates!





	1. Crossing Land

  

The sparks from the dying embers were dancing in the wind. Aedale Hawke watched them with empty eyes, unmoving as the sun was slowly setting under the distant peak of Sundermount, making the shadows longer and longer. She had lit the bonfire with  her hands, not magic.

Fenris was sitting silently at her side.

“Are you blaming me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “For stopping me from ripping his heart out the first time I realised he was an abomination? For not killing him yourself when you did? Yes, I am blaming you.”

Aedale swallowed soundlessly. Her throat seemed suddenly dry and thick.

“The rest of the responsibility, however, is his alone.”

Silence stretched between them. The cold northern wind blew, extinguishing the last flames in the ashes; the summer was ending. Aedale shivered as she felt the chill under the thin layers of her hastily scrambled old armour. Fenris wordlessly stood up, picked up the blanket and tucked it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence fell again. Aedale stared at the dying bonfire, not making any move to rearrange the awkward way in which the blanket was hanging from her shoulders. Memories raced through her mind: _the thundering blast, the crush, the sudden push of the Veil being opened by so many passing souls at the same time-_

“We should rest before tomorrow”, said Fenris without looking at her. She shivered again, more violently.

“I won’t sleep tonight.”

“You have to. We must find horses and get to the Waking Sea by tomorrow.” His voice betrayed a hint of frustration; his clawed hands opened and curled into fists again, as if he wanted to rearrange the blanket on her shoulders again. He composed himself, though. She shook her head impatiently.

“I know. We will. I just won’t sleep.”

A short pause. “Why?”

“The Veil-” Her voice faltered, thickened with uncried tears. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her disobedient body to stay still; another shiver went through her, one that had nothing to do with the northern wind.

She felt an uncertain hand on her shoulder – and then, as its grip suddenly gained confidence, two strong arms pulling her to a metal-plated chest. Fenris shifted and embraced her tightly. One of his hands grasped the blanket and wrapped them both in its warmth. Aedale let out a strained giggle that sounded more like a cry than anything else.

“Look at you, all fussing over me like that... the world has gone mad. What’s next, the Chantry being blown to bits?” She choked on the last words, hiding her face in his chest, desperately trying to still her shivering. Fenris’ arms tightened even more around her, his palms rubbing gentle circles at her back.

“I have always fussed over you.”

Another memory of grief and loss flashed on the inner side of her tightly squeezed eyelids. He had held like that before, a long time ago, as she’d cried her anguish and sorrow into his chest – _after Mother was killed._ There had been fire, too, she’d stared into its swirling red ribbons and crackling embers, and had not thought, had not felt anything. There had been a stilled sense of loss, as if nothing would bridge that gaping hole Leandra’s death had torn through her life - _Bethany was gone, Father was gone, Carver was – he was gone too, lost to Templars and lyrium and the cold, distant Maker_ \- but of all the things she’d thought lost, Fenris had been there, the pain from squeezing his cold metal gauntlet anchoring her in reality.

“Y-yes, I guess you have.”

Fenris rested his chin of her face and inhaled deeply, calming himself with effort. She knew he was feeling helpless. She knew he hated feeling helpless. But this time, this one time after seven years of being the tough mercenary-turned-noble-turned-Champion, she could not save him from his plight.

There was no longer a Kirkwall for her to be a Champion.

“Why won’t you sleep?” he asked again, more softly, with a deep rumble in his voice. Aedale shivered again and felt another squeeze of his arms around her. “You won’t make it to the coast. You’re exhausted. I will carry you if I must, but I... _you_ should not want that, Hawke. Now is not the time to deny yourself rest.”

“Fenris,” said Aedale with a half-strangled voice, pressing her face to his chest. “How do mages dream?”

“How is this-” The elf trailed off and she felt his fists squeeze on her back. “What has the... the blighted abomination done to the Veil?”

“It tore,” whispered Aedale. “It tore, and it shattered, and all those dead... I _felt_ them passing, Fenris, I _know_ they’re there, pressing against it from the other side, all those people he killed... and crossing would be the easiest thing, and what do I say to all those souls? What do I say?”

His embrace was suddenly so tight it hurt. She did not oppose, _it should hurt, hurt meant feeling,_ she rested inert and silent in his arms as he trembled in helpless rage.

“You tell them it’s not your fault.”

“I literally gave explosives to a known unstable fanatic. This is not much wiggle room I have in this.”

“You didn’t know!” he roared. Aedale felt one traitorous tear trickle down her cheek; it was too late to blink it back. She tasted salt, suddenly reminded of the terrible monotonous days seven years before everything, the dried salt on naked lips as the refugee ship was making its way through the Waking Sea. She hadn’t cried much since those days. 

“It didn’t matter.”

“Hawke,” now it was his voice that was stifled, heavy with unspoken emotion that was frustration, desperation, and helplessness in equal measures. “This is the only thing that matters. All that I learnt as a free man is that there’s a choice before a responsibility, and you had none. _It wasn’t your fault._ ”

“O-of course. The one-armed man did it. Like in _Hard in Hightown_. The possibility of the Champion of the bloody place being involved a terror attack goes beyond even Varric’s imagination.”

That brought a small bitter smile on his face, one she didn’t see but could feel in the tiny shifts of muscle under his skin. “Congratulations, Hawke. You have now surpassed the peak of incredulity.”

She sighed weakly into his chest. Even though there was no way of bringing them closer together, with her cheek pressed tightly into the little creek of his chestplate,  the squeeze of his arms around her told her that he would try.

“You are the only thing worth salvaging from that city,” he said quietly. Aedale closed her eyes.

“Tell that to the dead behind the Veil.”

“I would if I could.”

The bonfire was now empty and cold. Fenris slowly unclasped his gauntlets and slid his bare hands under the blanket, drawing soothing circles on her back. She wondered tiredly whether the possibility of touch was meant as just as much of a consolation to him as it was for her.

“How long until we get to the ship?”

“A day’s ride. Varric and Isabela should be waiting there.”

“And the rest of them?”

Aedale blinked back exhaustion, glad that there was finally something concrete and factual she could focus on. “Merrill’s staying, Aveline’s staying. Carver... he’ll stay by Cullen, they need just as many of level-headed folk as they can get right now. Anders-” And there it was again, a tight-squeezed knot in her throat, a sick feeling in her stomach, and a dull, pounding ache that seemed to transpire from her temples throughout the entire body. “I don’t know what Anders will do. He’ll run.”

“He’d better,” answered Fenris darkly through gritted teeth. “You should have killed him. He does not deserve a shred of mercy, least of all from you.”

“Maybe. Probably.” She moved her hands from his sides to rub her eyes, and felt him shift against her. “But with all the death around... I couldn’t, Fenris. I could not send another soul through the Veil. Not then, and not there.”

“And so the murderer walks free.”

“He wanted to die. Killing him would be mercy. Let him live and see what his crime has wrought.”

To that Fenris had no answer.

 The long shadows crept lower and broader, spilling wide on the ground as the light of the sunset diminished and faded. The sun was gone, the light was gone, her life for the last seven years was gone, and Aedale felt another steady trickle of an unwanted tear, silent and hopeless as she was. It had been over thirty hours since she had any rest.   

“How do I... start over? I’ve done it so many times before. I thought I’ve run out of ways things could go wrong.”

“Hawke.” Fenris let out a strange half-sad chuckle. “You haven’t even reached your thirties.”

“Mother wanted me to get married about three years ago, you know. I would have a family. Children. Tiny Hawkes running around, probably twins. With magic. Of course, I was too busy pining after you to even entertain a possibility, and yet...”

“Do you regret it?” The four words were carefully measured, wrought out of any emotion, and yet every single one was a heavy stone in Aedale’s stomach.

“No. Never.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.”

“I couldn’t live like that,” she whispered. “I couldn’t live without a purpose. And raising children in a world so unstable would be... it would be a purpose doomed from the start. But now it seems like I needn’t have bothered. _Everything_ I strove for was doomed.”

“This is my attitude, Hawke. Not yours.”

She let out a strangled giggle. “Guess you do rub off on me in some ways.”

“Hawke…” Fenris sounded tired, hesitant, his hands fiddling with her armour straps restlessly. “I’ve done this before. The running. This is all I had ever known for years before meeting you. It’s a life I do not wish for you, but it was… bearable. There is little I can imagine that could ever stop you.”

“But you decided to stay. To settle. Build a life, and friendships, and a home. And I’m the very reason you’re caught up in the middle of… of this. You could’ve stayed if it weren’t for me.” _I made you a fugitive again,_ she thought bitterly. _All that talk of settling down and starting over, and here we are, because of my mess: two people with nothing, on the run._

“You know what made me stay, Hawke?”

She flashed a quick, weak smile. “I did.”

“Yes.” He chuckled quietly. “You were the first kind spirit I met since Seheron. Not unlike the Fog Warriors, I suppose… Fierce. Proud. Loving, and open, and so very free. I could never see you bound, Hawke. Not by poverty, not by birth, not by your own magic. And I thought… I thought I could use company like that.”

“Mmm.” She reached out to tilt his head down, planting a soft kiss along the lyrium lines on his chin. “Sweet talker.” For a single shining second, there was no Anders in the world, no blown-up Chantry, no terror on the streets of Kirkwall, there was just _him_ and the way the lyrium in his skin sang to her lips.

He held her tightly, waiting several second before returning the kiss; after all this time, he was restraint embodied, he was all about denial and warded caution; but he was also fierce, and passionate, and when his lips closed on hers her mind drifted away, leaving only the body to enjoy the urgent, sloppy kisses.

As they parted, panting slightly, noses inches away – his rough ashen-coloured skin against her unhealthy paleness – Aedale smiled without opening her eyes.

“I see why company is useful.”

“Yes.” He rested his forehead against hers. “It is not home, or settling down, that kept me in Kirkwall, Hawke. It was… company. There was never a person to trust on the run.”

Heavy, unspent tears spilled down from her tightly shut eyes again; she felt a soft wet touch on her cheeks, spreading the salty moisture, and she knew that he was kissing the tears off her face. A sweet gesture, one so unlike and at the same time so _like_ Fenris that her heart swelled and ached at it. _He’ll stay with me. He’ll stay._

“I’ve never stopped following you.”

_So stubborn._

“I’m not sure if I’m in the best shape to follow.”

“Then I’ll carry you until you are,” he stated simply, as if it were the most obvious thing and not a declaration of loyalty so fierce that it make her heart ache. She kissed him again, a little peck on the lips, but Fenris would have none of that: he tangled one hand in her hair, bringing her even closer, and gave her a thorough deep kiss that sent her head spinning.

She gasped for breath. Fenris’ lip twitched in the slightest smug smirk as he pulled her down, shifting so they were lying face to face, wrapped in the blanket, heads resting on the heavy rucksacks.

“We should rest now.”

“I can’t-” she started, but the elf interrupted her.

“Have I ever told you about the jungles of Seheron? It’s a hot, moist, dangerous place where battle has been raging on for years to no end, the endless struggle between Tevinter soldiers and Qunari forces. The battles have been going on for so long that all strategic meaning of the island is now forgotten, important as it remains. It is now a mark of pride for both the Tevinter and the Qunari, but for the native rebels in between them, it is more than that – it’s the land of their people…”

As she listened to his deep, rumbling voice weaving a story from the threads she’d known from his earlier musings – _the brightly coloured poisonous flowers flooded by torrential rain, the thick fog veiling vipers and rebels, the white-clad white-faced fog dancers, old and wise and fiercely proud –_ a new thought appeared in her drowsy head, something that cut deep, painful and comforting at the same time.

_We are now truly equal, he and I. The fugitives._

There was only one thing certain about the future – it would hold many deaths. The rest was an unknown, and she would need to take it and slice it into bearable pieces, and then endure – be it a Blight, a mercenary life, or an Exalted March. But then again, maybe it wasn’t too brave to add Fenris to the list of things certain.

 _Fenris and death,_ she thought. _It fits. I like it._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, my first Inquisition playthrough, as awesome as it turned out to be, was a little underwhelming in terms of character development. I was ungodly (unmakerly?) attached to my Hawke, and the Inky I played as for the first time was a little bit of a reprise of her: a noble human mage who had a huge crush on Solas, and then, finding him unattainable, turned to Cullen and developed a wonderful, fulfilling, stable adult relationship for the rest of the game. (She was also an elemental mage, so go figure.) In short, she was as drama-free, healthy leader figure as you can imagine, responsible and respectable and all sorts of fantastic things. She also turned out to be terribly uninteresting - to the point where I was more excited about chatting to Varric about what Hawke was doing than about my actual protagonist. Sad times, I tell ya.
> 
> I fixed my Inky in the following playthroughs and now she's just as much of a badass as Aedale is, but that initial disappointment has bred "The Choice of the Champion" - an attempt to retrace Hawke's way from Kirkwall to Adamant. „On the run” is the first instalment of the series, dealing with the aftermath of the Kirkwall battle and Hawke’s journey to Ferelden. All the chapters are already written out and will be published regularly. Please subscribe/bookmark for updates - and while you're here, why don't you leave a comment or something? I'll love you.


	2. Crossing Seas

The next day was dull and tiresome, spent travelling off-road mountainous routes and hiding at each sign of human activity. The occasional bandits Fenris slashed with his greatsword; they were still too close to Kirkwall, and Aedale dared not disturb the Veil, as well as leave tracks of any magic. They barely spoke during the day, both equally exhausted – Fenris had refused to sleep as well, stating in his usual off-hand manner that he did not wish to leave her alone at outlaws’ mercy. She was too tired to protest.

The brightest moment of the day was, surprisingly, sent by Carver’s hand: as they were walking along the Wounded Coast, a happy bark broke the silence and Aedale was suddenly pressed to the ground by the full weight of a charging Fereldan mabari. At his collar the dog had a curt message from her brother, stating briskly what they had already suspected: the Chantry had buried hundreds of souls under itself, mainly nobles and women of clergy, and the Gallows stood open, their front courtyard adorned with a figure of Knight Commander Meredith turned into red lyrium. The Circle was no more, the Chantry was no more, the Viscount’s Keep remained as empty as it had, and the chaos resembled greatly the Qunari riots from three years ago; except where there had been a revered Champion now stood a hostile, murderous mage with an empty title. Carver’s letter ended with a dry warning: she was not to return to Kirkwall until the situation was dealt with. Grand Cleric was dead by the hand of an apostate and the Divine was not likely to show mercy.

But for all the terrible, sickening news the letter brought, it contained no accusations, and Aedale felt the tight knot in her stomach loosen slightly. Carver wouldn’t hesitate to swing it at her, and so if he didn’t, it truly meant he did not hold her responsible for what had happened.

He also told her to keep Vindr. “The dog was always only yours after all,” he wrote bitterly, but the sting wasn’t there. The tables had been turned for the Hawke siblings; suddenly he was a man on a holy mission, while _she_ was an infamous fugitive. A part of her was glad about it – at least the family name would remain respectable in some aspects – but at the same time she wondered snarkily how difficult it must be to juggle the righteous Templar anger with three apostates in the immediate family.

 _Then again,_ she thought, _maybe that’s the sort of background the Templar order desperately needs._

They sent Vindr to hunt and within an hour the mabari returned, proudly bearing a carcass of a hare. Fenris skinned it with practiced skill and they lit a small bonfire, roasting the meat until it smelled like a Dalish dinner; they didn’t stop for a meal, eating hastily on the road instead, and the bonfire got carefully hidden under a pile of rocks. With the part of her brain that was still functional after forty hours, she mused how much easier and quicker everything would be with magic. However, she would still not dare, and Fenris seemed to take strange pride in taking charge instead.

Aedale tried not to think about the last time he was forced to lead a life like that.

_Maker, this is my fault. And I told him he wouldn’t have to run anymore…_

The port they were looking for turned out to be barely more than a fishermen’s village with several piers stretching out into the sea, only just enough for a ship to moor. The villagers seemed used both to bandits and shady business, with hardly any heads turned by a human woman in mercenary attire, a dark-skinned lyrium-marked elf, and a Fereldan mabari. The ship wasn’t there, but Aedale didn’t worry; Isabela had probably weaved her way through the endless maze of the Wounded Coast’s little islands, dodging any pursuit the Kirkwall Templars might have given. It was no secret, after all, that the Champion was a friend of hers – Aedale had _duelled the Arishok_ for the pirate’s life.

She hoped Merrill was well. Aveline and Carver would survive thanks to their positions in the remaining structures of Kirkwall’s law enforcement, but Merrill was an elven mage caught up in the middle of a crumbling Circle – in other words, fair game. The elf had refused to be taken on Isabela’s ship and had headed to the alienage instead, keen on saving as many city elves as possible; _maybe_ , she thought weakly, _she’d even start her own clan._ She didn’t know how those things worked amongst the Dalish, or whether it was even allowed, but she could imagine Merrill starting off a new lineage, a new tribe and family, taught the old lore by a Keeper rejected by her own clan. _If it is a Keeper’s duty to remember, she would do a good job._

Fenris bought them a room; the innkeeper didn’t even blink at the sight of a giant mabari hound following suit into a small two-person bedroom. As Aedale collapsed weakly onto one of the twin beds, Fenris joined her without a hint of hesitation. Vindr eyed them thoughtfully and jumped onto the other bed.

Aedale let out a breathless chuckle.

“So much for bed space.”

“I am not leaving you alone with your nightmares, Hawke.” Fenris unsheathed his greatsword and laid it down on the floor, the handle within grasp. _Not that he’s ever unarmed._ He took off the spiky pieces of the armour and put it protectively under the bed; after that, he nestled himself against her back, hard, taut and protective. “Sleep now. The dwarf will find us when they arrive.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Don’t be absurd. You were practically falling over.”

“I don’t want to,” she repeated like a pouting child, in what felt like a reprise of their conversation last night. Her head was spinning gently, the room orbiting smoothly around their bed. _Like a star. Like Fade wisps around a violet sun._

“We’re not close to Kirkwall at all, Hawke. The Veil will be stronger here, and without the dead. And I’ll be here for your nightmares.”

“I… I don’t want to get into the Fade anymore,” she whispered. Fenris reached out and embraced her tightly, his cool hand squeezing at her waist. He seemed far less likely to tell stories all night again; superior as his endurance was, the hardships of the day were starting to show in the deep shadows under his eyes.

“Nothing I could say would make a difference,” he said in a low voice, with impatience lurking close to the surface. “Ask of me. Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it. But don’t you ever dare shut me out.”

“Ask of you?” She giggled humourlessly. “Fenris, I can’t lead you any longer. It’s not… it’s not one of my signature adventures anymore. I’ve got no purpose, no direction, my life has fallen to pieces by the hand of someone I trusted, and all I can do now is damage control. There’s nothing to ask or need. I just want the world back to how it was.”

“You mean the endless power struggle between Meredith and Orsino, with Grand Cleric doing nothing to stop them?” Fenris’ hands tightened on her. _It’s funny,_ she thought as if from far ahead, _we don’t really talk face to face anymore._ “Or do you want the world with the Qunari in Kirkwall, with the tensions going up until the inevitable crash? Or maybe you want the time before your Blight, when you were safe and happy, and I was just a mindless tool of Danarius?”

“No!” She turned in his arms, staring right at him. His eyes were filled with frustration, his mouth taut and tight. She reached out to kiss him and he turned his head away.

“I can’t give you the world back, Hawke. I… cannot.”

“I’m not asking you to,” whispered Aedale and her heart broke when she saw the look on his face, dark and sullen like a rabid wolf. Like himself in darker times. “It’s… it’s not that. It’s just a wish gone wrong… a prayer for things irreversibly gone…”

“It’s just grief,” he said in low voice. She shook her head.

“It’s not for something that was,” her voice was wavering, _he hasn’t looked at me like that for a long long time, how do I fix it? how do I fix it? –_ “it’s for… chances we had, hopes we never got to fulfil, and every possibility of a calm, stable future we could have had, Fenris, a future where we wouldn’t have to run!”

He stilled.

“And you are… blaming yourself for destroying it?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “And I wanted it so badly that I don’t dare enter the Fade even here, because if the Desire approaches me with a promise of that life, and it will, I won’t stop it. I am… too tired… of losing things… ” She closed her eyes, the sensation was similar to being drunk on his beloved Tevinter wine, spiralling down an endless staircase.

“Stupid mage.” Suddenly she was in an embrace too tight to be comfortable, and kissed with a force that had both lyrium and blood in it. She winced as he bit her lip, forcing her to open her mouth; he angled her head backwards, almost pushing her over the bed, and thrust his tongue against hers, desperate to the point of brutality. She could feel the frustration and helplessness, a bitter sting on her lip; but there was also, finally, understanding.

“It was my choice, Hawke,” he growled into her mouth. “My choice of following you. My choice of loving you. My choice of _you_ when you decided to stand by the mages in the Gallows. Do you think I was so blind I didn’t see the danger? I could have stayed and be at peace in Kirkwall, but I chose to be at your side, and I stand by this choice. Whatever life you want, there is nothing of me you have lost. Nothing you cannot have. I’m yours, Hawke, in the city or on the run, and you are mine.” He kissed her once more; she was too stunned to respond before he pulled away again. “Go to sleep. And tell that demon that there is nothing it offers that you cannot get yourself.”

Aedale blinked several times, very slowly. Fenris was watching her face intently, his expression suddenly guarded, as if he was waiting for a reproach or rejection.

“You just told me you loved me,” she said softly. Fenris scoffed.

“Of course I do, Hawke. This is hardly anything new.”

“It is when you say it for the first time,” she said, raising her hand to touch his cheek gently. He closed his eyes as her thumb moved across the white line of lyrium. “How… how long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you… loved me?”

“Long,” he said simply. Aedale felt a sudden lump in her throat.

“I do, too.”

“Go to sleep, Hawke.” But his eyes softened, and she was suddenly reminded of the previous night, and the soft wet lips that kissed the tears off her face. Fenris was a man who would not make a show of stating the obvious.

“Alright.”

Fenris relaxed. The corner of his lip twitched slightly.

“Why are you making everything so hard for me, Hawke?”

“It’s a talent some women have.” Looking him in the eye, she wiggled against his crotch, and his expression darkened.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

Aedale snorted against his chest. “Now I can.” She could feel the irritated huff he made, but it was a toothless one; the memories of Kirkwall flashed in her head once more, when Isabela and she were having obnoxious discussions on how to frustrate men. _It could be,_ she thought, and hope almost dulled the terrible pang of guilt when she remembered the dead in the Chantry, _with just a shred of luck it could be that nothing will change. We could still have our lives. We could still have our… life. Even on the run._

She nestled herself securely against him. “Wake me up when Isabela comes.”

“That’s what he said,” murmured Fenris.

Aedale choked with laughter. Seconds after, she fell into a deep slumber.

 

-/-

 

“Do _not_ wake her up,” warned Fenris darkly, stepping up to board the ship with the slumbering Champion of Kirkwall in his arms. _Former_ Champion, most likely, after what had happened – he doubted anyone in the city will harbour any positive feelings towards mages for years to come. Varric took a passing glance at the elf’s tired face, noted the deep shadows under his eyes, and wisely decided not to comment. The mabari eyed the little ladder distrustfully, took several steps back, and then jumped from the pier straight onto the ship.

“Thought this guy stayed in Kirkwall?” asked Varric, following Fenris aboard.

“Her brother sent him along. Kirkwall is crumbling.”

Varric pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Sure it is. Any news from baby Hawke?”

“Nothing we wouldn’t know,” replied Fenris tiredly. ”Where do I carry her?”

“That’s-”

“Hawke!” Isabela walked out of her cabin. Something was decidedly different about the way she carried herself; rather clumsy and ragged on land, on the ship she seemed to walk in full confidence, hips swaying in the gentle rocking of the board. There was a captain’s hat on her hair, and with certain dulled surprise Fenris noted that she was no longer wearing makeup – she looked as if, for once, she actually meant business.

“-the person you should be asking,” finished Varric. Isabela passed him and gently touched Aedale’s arm. Fenris instinctively rushed back, terrified that she was going to wake up the exhausted woman in his arms, but Isabela stepped away instead.

“It’s so strange,” she said, her voice quiet. “I never really saw her sleep. She’d always be this jumpy little bugger, terrifying for everybody but us. I never thought that would be how she’d board my ship.”

“Stop talking as if she’s dead,” snapped Fenris. Isabela eyed him up to bottom.

“My, what happened to _you_? Has _she_ carried you the rest of the way?”

“Just show me where our cabin is.”

“Give the elf a break, Rivaini,” said Varric behind her. “They’ve had enough over the last couple of days. We’ve all had.”

“It’s not all-”

“Just point him to the cabin,” said the dwarf. Isabela rolled her eyes. But her face softened as she looked back at Fenris and the small woman he was clutching to his chest.

“Alright, bring her here.”

As he followed Isabela below deck Fenris noticed that her swaying gait, drunkenly and ungraceful on land, made perfect sense on a rocking ship surface. The ship that she was leading him through was just big enough for the crew and cargo, with no space left unutilised; the mess-deck barely fitting two dozen people, the corridors narrow, lockers and nautical instruments taking up every niche and hole on the walls. With a somewhat dulled surprise he noticed books on the lock-shelves; it was always a revelation when Isabela let it slip that she was, in fact, quite intelligent.

Aedale shifted in his arms and he pressed her closer, careful of the metal claws at his fingers. She was no Champion anymore; and yet he was sure that the people would still follow her. Maybe not in Kirkwall, no, but Hawke did prove that she didn’t need money nor fame nor a position to rise up from poverty into heights of power. She had done it before, and he did not doubt for a second that she would do it again.

Meanwhile, he would carry her; a shadow protector of a woman too fearless to keep to shadows.

The cabin Isabela gestured him into was barely worthy of its name; it was a narrow little room with a wide berth taking up most of the space, a compartment under it, lock shelves on the slanting walls, a round bull-eye window as the only source of light. Fenris laid down the sleeping woman, gently untangling himself from her  arms, and shrugged off the ragged rucksack on his back. Then he sat down at Hawke’s side, not making a move to take off neither the armour nor the sword.

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “So? Aren’t you going to strip now?”

“Not for your pleasure,” he replied dryly. “I’m not leaving her.”

The pirate rolled her eyes. “Nobody asks you to leave her, Fenris. You look like hell. Just have some rest before she wakes up, that’s it. Nobody’s going to assassinate you in your sleep, promise.”

Fenris hesitated. “How many of the crew?”

“About a dozen,” said Isabela. “They’re tough folk, and very loyal. I’ve sailed with them before. They’ve been through enough trouble not to have any sympathy for Kirkwall’s Gallows, and lots of it for anyone who’d open them.”

“Ex-prisoners, then.” Fenris pressed his mouth into a thin line. Isabela made a dismissive gesture.

“As I said, tough, loyal, and I vouch for them. But you’d probably not have any troubles butchering them all if they came here to mutiny right now.”

Despite everything, Fenris found himself cracking a weak smile. “You know how to reassure me, Isabela.”

“Well, I’ve been dealing with your sorry ass for years now, haven’t I, huh?” She leant against the doorframe, looking at him with a curious expression. “Is she alright?”

His hand found Hawke’s waist and rested there. “I… don’t know.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

“This is just like the last time with the Qunari,” said Isabela quietly. “She’s got the worst luck for people in the world. Last time it was me causing all this mess. Now it’s Anders.”

“You came back.”

“I didn’t want to. I was halfway to Llomeryn before something stupid made me turn around. And then, even after I ran off and left you guys to die, she fought for me. She fought the fucking Arishok.” Isabela’s face softened as she looked at the small frame of Hawke resting behind Fenris. “For a liar and a traitor. I still don’t know why.”

“She let the mage go, too.”

“She does that, doesn’t she? Not kill. That’s what she’s doing whenever she can. Not killing.”

He clenched his teeth, remembering the mage’s face as he’d risen up to her, just a short while after he had blown up hundreds of innocent people. “Too much of it.”

“You know what I’m scared of?” Isabela paused. When Fenris didn’t answer, she continued, “That one day she’s just going to… stop. No more saving people. No more doing crazy stuff. That we just… dissolve into strangers, she and I and us all, and the world goes back to what it was six years ago. I don’t know if I could handle it.”

Fenris wordlessly clenched his fist on Aedale’s tunic. _She’s not going to stop._ _Not the Hawke I know._ But a cold shiver went through him as he imagined the future without her as a beacon.                   

Isabela coughed and stood straight, the aura of a captain snapping back in place. “Not like you’re going to believe it, but you’re actually safe here, so get some rest before she wakes up. We need to figure out some sort of plan after.”

“Tell the dwarf I’ll join you in a while.” He dropped his sword to the floor. In any case, he thought, he could grab it in half a second. “And…” He hesitated, the improbable rare words thick and uncomfortable in his throat. “Thank you, Isabela.”

She flashed a toothy grin at him. “I’m not doing it for you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Maybe a little.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows wordlessly.

“You are a knob, but a somewhat attractive knob. That’s my weakness.” Isabela winked at him as she left, hips swaying to the rhythm of the gentle rocking of the ship.

He lay down at Aedale’s side, his chest pressing tightly against her back. Before he slipped into a deep dreamless sleep, he felt a spark of gratitude for the exhaustion; it let him not think about the future.    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like even though Fenris plays tough, and even though he really believes that Hawke can turn literally anything to her favour, he's more affected by leaving Kirkwall than he lets on. It's been six years, after all. He's just not going to let her see it.
> 
> Next part's gonna have more Varric in it, I promise.


	3. Sharing burdens

“Does it feel weird without a spy network to let you know all the stuff?” asked Isabela. Varric raised his head from the desk in the captain’s quarters, the only one on the entire ship; he’d been writing letters for hours now. Many people would want a clear account on what had happened in Kirkwall, and he was not going to waste the chance of actually sending out the word when the ship was still anchored.

“It feels like not having a limb, Rivaini. You’ll survive, but awkwardly.”

“What’s the plan now?”

Varric shook his head. “Heck if I know. I can’t manoeuvre around without information, and this is big enough that we need lots of it. We could be game for the next Exalted fucking March right now as far as I’m concerned. We need to get to a city.”

“Just any city?”

“One with a bank, for starters. I need to relocate to my money somewhere safe before it gets ripped apart by some overzealous Chantry clerks.”

“Varric,” Isabela circled the table and leaned towards him from the opposite side, peeking at the documents from upside down. “I’m not exactly great with planning things. Should we wait for Hawke?”

“She’ll get here as soon as she’s awake. It’s just finance now.” Varric turned his head back to the letters. “Besides, she’s just lost her entire life in a literal blast. I know Hawke’s a hero, but she’s also just a kid. Give her a break.”

“That coming from a man half my height? Bold.” Aedale pushed the door open, making both Isabela and Varric look up abruptly. Both grinned widely in unison; she was still visibly worn out, but no paler than usual, and her bright blue eyes were as piercing and keen as ever. Fenris silently slipped into the room behind her. “What’s up, Varric, Isabela? How nasty of you to starting the scheming without me.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” shrugged Isabela with a smirk. “He started it. Boring bank business, apparently.”

“I assure you, there is nothing boring about pissing off cutthroat shareholders like I’m about to.” Varric signed off the document with an angular signature and laid down the quill. “Good to see you in the land of the living again, Hawke.”

“Never left it.” Aedale stretched and yawned violently. “Does feel good to have a little nap, though. Fenris and I had quite a hike through the Vinmark.”

“Well, you were still quicker than us. Rivaini here had to dodge several tails for a while. Though I don’t think they gave pursuit after the first day.”

“Not a chance,” said Isabela smugly. “Even if they tried, they would’ve crashed on the rocks if they followed us after that. No one knows these shores like I do.”

Aedale nodded. “We thought as much.” She walked up to Varric, briefly looking over his documents. “That is all for private correspondence, or are you in the process of plotting something already?”

“This is all news requests, Hawke. We need to know things, and we need to know them fast. Elf mentioned a letter from your little tin can brother?”

Fenris took out the letter and put it on the pile of Varric’s papers. The three of them gathered around the desk as the dwarf was quickly scanning Carver’s pointy handwriting.

“Cullen will be Knight Commander,” said Aedale. “He’s been leading the Templars for a while now. People trust him, and they’ve been trusting him with things they wouldn’t tell Meredith. He won’t give pursuit, Kirkwall will be more important.”

“No, that’s what _Aveline’s_ going to do.” Varrik pushed Carver’s letter away and put a date on another clean sheet. “I’m not saying that the curly Templar is particularly keen on chasing us down, but he’s not free to decide for himself. He’s got the authority of the entire Chantry on his back, and he’ll be forced to do whatever the Divine tells him to. Much like your brother.”

Aedale’s eyes narrowed as she snatched a clean piece of parchment from the desk. “I’d like to write up some letters of my own.”

Varric nodded and shifted on the chair, making space for her. She perched at the edge of the seat, grabbing the other quill laying on the desk. Isabela eyed them both for a couple of seconds.

“Looks like you both got to the boring part. I’ll be making sure we’re ready to set sail whenever you’re done. Come on, Fenris.” She gestured at him. The elf hesitated, looking at Aedale at the desk; she nodded and turned her attention back to the desk. He followed Isabela out of the cabin, turning his head restlessly every couple of seconds.

“There is a fine line between being protective and stalking, you know,” said Isabela in front of him. “She’s right back in action. We’ll be alright.”

Fenris closed his eyes for a split moment. “You didn’t see what happened.”

-/-

_Screams. Chaos. Mages. Templars. Blood. Smoke. In the panic and rubble, Hightown had turned into Seheron._

_Pulling his sword out of the bloodied chest of a Templar warrior, Fenris saw Aedale cornered by three other knights. He cursed violently and ran after her, but she gestured at him to stay away, her face twisted in a grimace of pain; she made a wide flourish, and a deadly fan of ice sprang from her arm, freezing the Templars in place. He dodged the spiky icicles and charged at the enemies, his marking flaring up at the fresh singe of lyrium that surrounded them; Hawke yelled something incomprehensible, and a wall of fire enclosed her, charring the frozen bodies of the templars in split seconds. She kicked them down. The baked armours gave way easily and fell to her feet._

_She looked terrifying: face bloody, eyes shining with the pure blue of the Fade. Fenris suppressed a wince and forcibly reminded himself that she could not be possessed. There was just one spirit of Vengeance running the streets of Kirkwall, and it was_ not _her._

_“I need to go to the Chantry,” she said. He felt a gnawing fist clench on his insides._

_“Hawke, no.”_

_“This is my mess. I need to see it.”_

_“Don’t do it.” She wouldn’t listen. She would never listen. He followed her as she made her way up the district, tearing through the rubble with effortless telekinetic blasts. They passed her home and he saw her hesitate; there wasn’t much time._

_“Go to your house, Fenris. Get everything you can carry and meet me in Darktown with Varric.”_

_“No.”_

_“Fenris,” he saw her face crack and an expression of true desperation floated to the surface before she shut it off. “We don’t have time for this.”_

_“I won’t let you see it alone.”_

_She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She turned back wordlessly and ran, and he followed. The people they were passing cowered from them, the healthy running, the injured crawling away._

_She stopped abruptly. A small whimper escaped her lips and Fenris stared ahead, unsure what they were up against; after several seconds he saw a golden statue’s hand under the rubble and understood what he was looking at._

_The Chantry did not fall in Kirkwall; the Chantry fell_ on _Kirkwall. Whatever spell the mage used with the explosives, it had lifted the old Tevinter walls to the sky and rained it down like the wrath of the Maker himself. The hill of the Chantry had turned into a gigantic crater, with crushed foundations baring the very stone on which Kirkwall had been built._ _The rest of the monumental temple was scattered throughout half the Hightown: on its roofs, roads, fountains, and people._

_He saw her shoulders shake and followed her line of sight. A head, cracked red like an overripe berry, was lying on the pavement; the rest of the body had been crushed under a huge piece of mosaic-adorned sandstone. A woman was perched up next to it, gently wiping  the blood from his temple._

_“Jean Luc,” said Hawke quietly. “Never did anything more adventurous in his life than selling a robe three sovereigns too expensive.”_

_The woman raised her head at the sound of Hawke’s voice, and Fenris recognised Dulci de Launcet – the Orlesian mother of the pathetic blood mage hopeful._

_“Champion! Help him, he’s bleeding! Help me get it off him!”_

_“Lady Dulci,” said Aedale gently, “There’s nothing you can do for him now. He’s passed away.”_

_“Of course not! He’s just unconscious! Jean Luc!” Dulci’s hands clenched on the bloodied handkerchief. A wedding ring flashed on her finger and Fenris wondered how long she had been holding on to the affair._

_“I’m sorry,” said Hawke in thickened voice. It was not the only body lying under the rubble, and Fenris wondered how many of them she knew._

_Many. Perhaps everyone._

_“You witch!” shrieked Dulci, and Hawke recoiled at the unabated hatred in her voice. “This is all your fault! You were meant to protect us!”_

_“Shut your mouth, woman,” growled Fenris. Dulci flinched back, pressing her frame against the rock._

_“And the brutes you keep around! Elves! Mages! If you weren’t there, this wouldn’t have happened! And Jean Luc… Jean Luc!…” She started weeping, with loud, pathetic sobs shaking her entire body._

_“I’m leaving, Lady Dulci,” said Hawke quietly._

_“To the Void with you!” The woman was clutching at the dead man’s head, shaking uncontrollably. “To the Void with all of you!”_

_Hawke turned around and left without another word._

_He followed her to the estate, fortunately undamaged by the blast, where they quickly grabbed provisions and gear. The fire was extinguished, the chandelier was dark and empty, and Oriana was hiding in the kitchen, clutching her lute like a lifeline; Hawke gave her a sack of gold sovereigns and told her to find Aveline. As the servant fled, Aedale descended to the armoury and emerged a couple minutes later, carrying every staff she owned._

_“We cannot take them all, Hawke.”_

_“I don’t intend to.” Before he could react, she dropped them all in a pile and ignited it._

-/-

“She burned her staves?” Isabela looked at him incredulously as she was pulling out the anchor. “Even the one that she got from that Warden prison after her dad? Help me out with this one.”

“All of them.” Fenris grabbed the line and fished out the anchor with ease. Isabela took it from him and started tying a knot on its rope. “She burned through the mansion floor.”

The pirate tsked disapprovingly. “I would’ve found some better usage for that carpet.”

“So did we,” Fenris flashed a quick smile, “a long time ago.”

 Isabela giggled. “You had sex in front of the fireplace! How classy. At least Orana got some action to watch.”

Fenris’ face darkened as he thought about the elven girl in Kirkwall. “I can only hope Aveline will treat her right. Not all former slaves are well-equipped to the life on the run.”

“She’ll be fine, she’s learnt a lot over the last three years. I almost made her swear, once.”

“What did she say?”

“Shit.”

“That doesn’t really count.”

“No, this shit. This shit, shit.” Isabela shook the rope loose and started tying the knot again. “What did Hawke do after she’d burned through the carpet?”

 “We moved to Darktown.”

-/-

_If Hightown was crushed over with the Chantry, Darktown was crushed over with Hightown. The rubble of the upper districts, falling on sheds and people of the Undercity, was wreaking havoc; every other minute another loose boulder or a piece of debris was rumbling through the stench-ridden maze of the unstable air bridges and paths of the poor district. As they emerged from the Hawke wine cellar, several arrows shot at them on sight; Hawke charred the bandits in seconds and they moved in, making their towards the water through chaos and fighting._

_“The Chantry fell! The Chantry fell!” A wild screaming followed the exclamation and Hawke turned back to see a Circle apprentice, her robe so dirty and torn that she’d had to be in hiding for a long while. Red scars covered her arms and forearms._

_“Brace yourself!” yelled Hawke and Fenris ran to her translucent protective shield. A wave of raw power shook the stones of Darktown, tumbling yet more rubble down its paths. The blood mage raised her arms and laughed, mad with either power or victory._

_“Champion! Celebrate with me! This is the world you’ve fought for us to get!”_

_“This is nothing like the world I wanted!” Hawke sent a fiery blast at her and the mage faltered; but then she rose again, eyes glazing over with the sheer power of blood._

_“Traitor! What do you want now? This is what they made us, this is what_ you _made us, you should join me! We’ve got freedom, we’re free, Champion, we’re free!”_

_“Fenris, watch out!”_

_He stepped aside on instinct and a second later a demon rose up from the spot he’d stood, its roaring flaming form looming over him. He phase-shifted through it, slashing its head with a powerful swing; the demon shrieked and ran after him._

_“I’ll take the mage!” As he ran, an icy spell fell on the demon’s flames, freezing him in a terrifying form. Hawke raised her arms and called on the Void, and it opened; Fenris shuddered as he felt his markings flaring up at the raw magic flying out of this air, the flames and lightning alike. He saw her in front of him as he charged on the blood mage, and there she was, her face twisted and blood-splattered, her hair lighting up with electricity, her hands shining with white-hot fire: a Champion of the very Void._

_He thrust the final blow, tearing through the bones to the heart. The blood mage fell dead to his feet, and the demons turned to ashes._

_But Hawke didn’t stop._

_He drew back, watching as flames and lightning bolts poured and poured through the air, charring the stone and wood of Darktown’s remains, the flames circling through the air and exploding as they touched the ground. There was nothing to stop it. He realised with terrible clarity that there was nothing_ he _could do to stop it._

_What could he do that the Blight, the Qunari, and an army of mages and Templars couldn’t?_

_“Hawke,” he called through the firestorm._

_An incomprehensible yell answered him from the eye of the storm and the flames started swirling like a tornado, lightning crackling at its heart. Fenris clenched his fists._

_“Hawke, we have to move on.”_

_“Not before I burn this Maker-forgotten city to the ground.” Her voice was the very flames, white-hot and verging on the edge of insanity._

_“It is already burning! You need to come with me now. Please, Hawke.” He felt his voice crack. “You can’t give in now. Not after all this. Not to me.”_

_Silence followed, long enough that he started wondering whether she’d heard him in the thrum of the flames._

_And then a fiery blast tossed him backwards and against the wall, so powerful that he lost his breath and vision for a split second._

_Hawke was cowering at the heart of a charred crater._

_He walked towards it and helped her up without a word. Turning her face away, she accepted his hand._

_-/-_

“She lost it?”

“She did.”

Isabela was untying the knots on fenders in stunned silence. After a long while, she asked hesitantly:

“Should you be telling me that?”

Fenris stared at the horizon glumly. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I cannot…” He trailed off. “I cannot help her, Isabela. I don’t know how.”

The pirate sighed. “Well, shit. Out of all the people to confide in, you chose the most useless one. What do you expect me to say? Screw her brains out until she gets better? Go for it. Maybe I even get to watch.”

He shrugged. “You’re a woman. You’ve been with women, you might understand them. I took my chances.”

“Again, that just proves that I can give wonderful sex advice. Won’t give you much good here, sorry. I’m not good with meaningful stuff.” She finished untying the fenders and started securing them once again, this time with a loose, easily undoable knot. “Just… talk to her.”

“Isabela.” A corner of his lip raised in a bitter half-smile. “She’s just gotten from a political leader to a wanted criminal, most of the people she knew in Hightown are now dead, and this is all by something she helped with. You think _talking_ is going to help?”

“You’d be surprised.” She shrugged. “You’re going to mock my advice, don’t ask for it.”

“That wasn’t-” Fenris trailed off. Then he sighed and sat down next to her, mimicking her movements on the fender ropes. “Apologies. I did try… talking.”

“It’s not how you do it.”

“How do I do it, then?”

“Pass the end of the rope around the lifeline… this thing here.” She pointed at the tight rope above the bulwark. “Over the standing end, now… not under it, _over…_ back around the lifeline again. That’s a clove hitch.”

He nodded at her. In silence, they moved around for a while, readjusting the fenders so the ship would not chaff against the pier.

“Bit lower. You don’t want them popping up.”

“How do I make her understand this is not her fault?” Fenris blurted out, louder than he had intended. He looked back nervously, but nobody seemed to be on the upper deck. “I… find it difficult. I never wished for it to happen, but neither did she. She is a victim of the mage, just like every other man and woman of Kirkwall.”

“When I was sailing off with the relic,” said Isabela quietly, “I was telling myself the same thing, you know. That I needed it more than some Qunari did. And even if something bad happened, it would be on my head, right? But it wasn’t. She took it. And everybody saw that she did.”

“Are you saying that _she_ makes people think she’s responsible for that?”

“All I’m saying is that if they needed someone to take responsibility, she’d step up.”

He shook his head. “All those years…” he said in a low voice, focusing on fumbling gracelessly with the rope. “We… _I_ have been doing the same. And so did he.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“It’s all _his_ fault. And she let him go free.” He pulled the end of the rope so hard that the fender sprang up, splashing the starboard earnestly.

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “You’re making her wet.”

“What?” Fenris turned to her abruptly.

“The ship. You’re making the ship wet.” She giggled to herself as he rolled his eyes with an annoyed huff. “Hah! That was a nice one.”

“I’ve had enough,” grumbled Fenris and stood up. “I’ll be below deck if you need me.”

“Avast, sailor!” she called after him. “I thought you wanted to meet the crew?”

“No, I did not.”

“Wait, I’ll say that again. I thought you wanted to see how easily you could slaughter the entire crew if they mutinied?”

Fenris hesitated. That did sound appealing.

“Come on, there’s nothing to do here anyway, and won’t be until we set sail. And they play Diamondback.”

“Fine,” he relented after a long moment.

Isabela clapped her hands and jumped straight over the lifeline onto the pier. “Great-ho! Tavern awaits, then.”

He cast one last passing glance at the captain’s quarters before he followed her into the village.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied! There's *NO* Varric in this one. Mostly because it completely ran out of control. I'm just sitting here, thinking 'time to write up some serious plot progression', and suddenly there's this bonding time between Fenris and Isabela. Cool, I guess?
> 
> But there's definitely going to be Varric in the next one. Girl scout's honour.


	4. Making plans

The list of names was long, but she knew it was far from finished.

“This is self-torture, Hawke. Even I don’t write so pointlessly painful things.”

“Maybe because you’ve never been responsible for a terror attack,” she said with a big, incredibly false grin. “It’s a new experience.”

“Evidently. Seems to make you lose track of reality, too.” Varric tapped his quill at a name on her piece of parchment. “Emile de Launcet? You don’t even know if that kid is dead.”

“I sent him to the Circle, Varric. Which is the Gallows. And I’m pretty sure that if he had been alive, his mother would be more concerned about looking for her son than going mad from grief over the body of a dead lover.”

“Not necessarily. But then again, what do I know about women?”

“Just about enough to effectively manipulate the demographic. Who’s that… Cassandra here?”

“Just some admirer sending in really crappy fanfiction to _Swords and Shields_. Although if that’s a true surname here, she’s in line for the throne of Nevarra.”

“What?” Aedale choked with laugher. “Let me see!”

“Look at this. _Pentaghast._ That’s a royal name, Hawke.”

“She’s made it up,” ruled Aedale authoritatively.

“You sure? It wouldn’t be a first member of the royal family reaching out.”

“Yeah, but the King of Ferelden was here for me about Meredith, and this is you about your rubbish romance series. Although _this one_ is probably more interesting.” She picked up a finished letter bearing his concise, angular signature. “ _Dearest Bianca…_ ”

“Hey! You put that down.” Varric snatched the letter from her hand and put it on the bottom of the pile. “What I do to my crossbow is my business only.”

“Except it’s not a crossbow, is it?” Aedale stopped his hand.

Varric glanced at her for a long while and, finally, sighed. “Not here and not now, Hawke. And especially not with you going nuts over the Chantry.”

“I’m fine. What was that girl’s name again?”

“No, you’re not.” He tapped the list of names again. “You’re making the list of the people you think you’ve killed, while bantering about my fanbase. This is your mother all over again.”

Aedale’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to bring my mother into this.”

“And why not? You’re mourning, Hawke. And you’re crap at that. Especially that this time this is after the entire city.”

“I am _fine,_ Varric.”

“Do you even listen to yourself saying that?” Varric put the quill down and looked her straight in the eye. “Because I don’t buy that, and you don’t buy that yourself, and if that paranoid look on his face was any indication, the elf doesn’t either.”

A long pause followed. From outside, she could hear the low, rasping tone of Fenris’ voice, alternating with Isabela’s short exclamations. She couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded peaceful enough.

“It’s okay to hurt,” said Varric quietly.

“Well, fuck it.” She closed her fists and fire blossomed on them, spreading along her head as she squeezed her temples violently. “I hurt, Varric, I fucking hurt. Is that what you wanted to hear? Can we move on now?”

“No, _you_ can move on, and maybe move away from the papers while you’re at it?” He pushed the parchments away from her fire-covered arms. Aedale breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling in slow huffs. The flames died down slowly.

“Should I have stayed with the templars?” she asked, suddenly vulnerable.

“They would’ve killed us all, Hawke.”

“No, before that.” She shook her head. “When Meredith asked me to fight with her, should I have stayed? Would it have changed things? Maybe it wouldn’t have meant running for all of us… I can’t ask Fenris this. He said it would be a mistake from the beginning.”

“Regardless of what the elf thinks of it, it wouldn’t have made a difference. She was crazy, Hawke. She turned against her own men. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent that.” Varric pushed another letter towards her. “This is from Cullen. An urchin brought it to me after just before Isabela and I boarded. Told me to give it to you.”

Aedale blinked several times.

“It took you that long to get to it?”

Varric shrugged. “Wanted to see how you were holding up first.”

“Maker’s tits, Varric. You sure do take your time.” She snatched the envelope out of his hand and tore it impatiently. Cullen’s handwriting – sharp, angular and soldier-like in every sense – was short and concise.

“ _Champion_ ,

_You have made your decision and I regret to say that I will not be able to provide your safety should you wish to return, whatever I might think myself. I do not know what role you played in the Chantry plot, but since you’ve decided to defend the mages, there is one thing only I ask of you: keep them safe. They are as much a danger to everything around them as they are to themselves._

_The envoy to the Divine has been sent and everything is in her hands now. Maker bless you, serah Hawke._

_Acting Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford_

“Hah!” Aedale punched the air victoriously. ”He _is_ Knight-Commander now. Told you.”

“Screw the obvious, what’s new?” Varric put the letter down on the desk and they both hunched over it. “Well, I’d be a nug’s uncle.”

“Not too hostile, isn’t it? Rare for a Templar these days.” Aedale scribbled another name of her list. _Ser Thrask._

“Stop it, Hawke. Your self-loathing is giving me headache.” Despite her protests, Varric took the list away and put it at the bottom of his pile. “This is actually really, really good news we’ve got in this letter.”

“That being?” She shot him a dirty look. “Obviously he wants me to look after the mages, and therefore there are mages to look after. I had hoped that would be the basic answer, not a happy surprise.”

“No, your title. He addressed you as the Champion, Hawke. You haven’t been stripped of it yet.”

“Could you even do that?” She looked at the letter doubtfully. “I thought it’s not something to be lost.”

“It doesn’t depend on money or birth or marriage, you’re right. But it _can_ be lost, and there’s little that we could do in that case.” Varric started writing again, this time with renewed energy. “But the leaders of Kirkwall still recognise you. You’re still a Champion.”

Aedale raised a brew. “And that, outside from an annoying dinner party that I will be invited at, would mean…?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “You never read that _History of Free Marches_ I lent you, didn’t you.”

“Oh, I just couldn’t.” She batted her eyelashes. “I was too busy, you know, actually _being_ a Champion to read about how to be one.”

“It’s not what you are, but what you are to the people.” Varric turned to her, his eyes glazing over slightly as his voice turned a little bit more melancholic. Aedale grinned, sensing a story coming. “This title is not a mark of honour. It’s not given as a sign of moral superiority. It’s a right of sweat and blood poured into the very land you live in, a testimony of deeds that does not need recognition but sparks reverence instead. It’s leadership in times of turmoil, and a grasp on the neck of Destiny itself that makes you a Champion, and whether you are loved of feared, you change the lives that you touch forever.”

Aedale was quiet for a long while. “So, to recap,” she said conversationally after the dwarf looked at her with eager eyes, always the sucker for compliments, “I _can_ be loved _and_ feared, right?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Then this is what I shall be.” She smiled dangerously, but her face fell quickly. “Do I live up to the hero you make me into, Varric? The grasp on the neck of Destiny, is it for better or for worse? The… change I wring on people?”

“You are one hell of a trouble magnet, Hawke, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s just what destiny means.” He put his hand on her shoulder, wringing the arm upwards uncomfortably, and she shrunk into the chair to look him in the eye on an even level. “But everything you’ve done, you’ve done for Kirkwall and for all those poor sodders that are miserable enough to live there. And that’s what makes you a Champion.”

“Well, it seems I still have a duty to the people of Kirkwall,” said Aedale after a pause, voice filled with strange finality. “We’ll look for the mages now.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Varric grinned as he passed her several envelopes that he’d already written up. One to Ostwick, one to Starkhaven, and one to Cumberland; all addressed to the Circles of Magi.

“From the Champion of Kirkwall to the First Enchanters.”

She grinned back at him and pushed another handful of envelopes, dedicated to Jainen and Lake Calenhad in Ferelden. “Father had friends there. I haven’t spoken to those people since I babbled at them as a toddler, but that’s a start.”

“Well, I have only _heard_ about most people from Cumberland, so you’re still one babble closer.”

“So!” She clasped her hands. “Brilliant. Kirkwall recognises my authority as a Champion, as so will the Free Marches, then. Let’s just not go anywhere near Orlais, okay?”

“You got it. The food is terrible there anyway.” Varric cringed, and Aedale wondered whether he thought of the cheese, or of Duke de Montfort’s terrible wyvern.

“The priority is to band together the mages from the Gallows. They shouldn’t be particularly difficult to find, most of them are people who never lived a free existence before. They won’t know how to split the group, or hide.”

“Easy. Have you _seen_ a mage hide, Hawke?”

“I’ll have you know that I avoided pursuit quite nicely just days ago, _smartass._ ” She nudged the dwarf as he snickered. “Meanwhile, we get as much info as we can. Dock in Ferelden, get your finances done, let the king know what became of Meredith, spread the word. We’ll see whether we can relocate the Kirkwall mages to Ferelden circles without much friction. Worst case scenario, we ask Aveline to sneak in and shatter the phylacteries back in the Gallows.”

“You know as well as I that this is not going to happen.”

“A mage can dream, huh?” She hunched over the desk, sorting out the envelopes. “We can do this, Varric. We just need to be really, really careful, and we can do this.”

“One more thing.” Varrik coughed pointedly and tapped his quill at the last paragraph of the Knight-Commander’s letter. “One more person, I should say. Pointy hat, lots of wrinkles. Used to send people on crusades against magic.”

“We’ll deal with the Divine when she makes her choice. No point in obsessing something beyond our control.”

“Exactly.” Varric’s hand covered hers on the desk and Aedale froze in place. “You didn’t kill those people, Hawke. You had no knowledge and no agenda. So burn that list and let’s move on.” He withdrew his hand hastily. “And don’t ever make me hold your hand again. That was incredibly awkward.”

“Yeah, I was just about to mention that.”

“Can you imagine what your grumpy love interest would have done to me if he saw that?” Varric cringed, possibly imagining the feeling of disembowelment. Aedale grinned.

“Can _you_ imagine what your semi-automatic letter-receiving crossbow would to _me?_ ”

“All sorts of terrible things, I assume. Bianca can be incredibly protective of her fine piece of a man.” He rose from the chair, leaving her to enjoy the entirety of the seat for herself. “I’m more or less set on the letter-writing front, I’ll go fetch the team and find messengers. Finish off and we can set sail. Ugh,” he winced, “I’m not looking forward to _that_ again.”

“Did you try strong spirits? Apparently they’re good for sea sickness.”

“Don’t work on dwarves. If they’re meant as a knock-out, a punch in the face would do just fine instead, you know.”

“What were you saying about holding my hand in front of Fenris?” She snickered.

“I said a punch, not dismemberment. See you in a moment, Hawke. And I don’t want to see that list anywhere in the ship when I get back.”

“You won’t,” said Aedale quietly as the door shut behind him. She put the list of the dead from under the pile, carefully folded it in quarters and slipped it under her robes, close to the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pointed out that my Cassandra mention was out of character. But IS IT?
> 
> (If you're reading it, by the way, I'd be very very happy if you leave a comment. A little feedback goes a long way, and I'll love you to the moon and back!)


	5. Responsibility

The ship set sail at dawn, vanishing in the thick fog. No one watched its departure, and no one followed.

Isabela wasn’t surprised when she learnt that they were to sail to Denerim. She nodded, smirked under her breath, and said something about electricity that Fenris did not understand, and Aedale blushed furiously at. Beyond that, the days were quiet; outside from occasional barking of commands, or a crude shanty, the deck remained unanimously governed by the mist and soft, continuous whisper of the sea.

The men and women in the crew were rough and simple, but they knew their trade well. Out of more boredom than real interest, Fenris started loitering on the upper deck, watching the upkeep of the ship until he was called in to help. After the first day it became a habit of his, and the crew members quickly warmed up to the stoic land rat with a surprisingly strong grip.    

“Nice ink,” said Darvin once, as they were playing cards behind the captain’s quarters at the stern, sheltered from the onslaught of wind. Darvin was a big, bulky man with a scarred face and small, beady black eyes, Isabela’s first mate. He examined the white lines on Fenris’ arms and neck thoughtfully. “What’s that made with?”

“Lyrium.”

“Hah! Good one. “ The man gave a short bark of laughter. ”I’ll show you something.” He’ll pulled off his shirt and proudly presented a crude tattoo of a red high dragon spitting fire across his entire chest. “I gave a month’s pay for that.”

“Was it worth it?” asked Fenris, despite himself interested in the answer. There was something bizarrely proud in a man choosing his own markings.

The sailor shrugged. “You tell me. It’s the age of the Dragon, aye? At least they’ll know when I died if they dig me up one day.” He pulled the shirt back down. “The dwarf says you lot fought dragons. Got any scars?”

“A broken arm.”

“Huh.” The sailor shrugged, visibly disappointed at the mundaneness of it, and put his cards down. “Queen-Priestess. That’s forty five.” They continued playing in companionable silence, passing minor coins to one another, until Isabela called them both for the watch shift. Fenris found it strange, and strangely comforting, how easy his tattoos fell into place on the ship; colourful lines and crude drawings on men’s skin were expected, and worn with pride. It seemed that in their eyes, he wasn’t wearing a threatening weapon, but a mark of a sailor. It filled him with  bizarre calm.       

He eased into the simple rhythm of the sea, similarly as he had finally eased into the rhythm of the city; his feet soon found their balance in the gentle rocking, sometimes turned into violent jerks, sometimes reduced to an almost complete stillness. The dark wood of the ship was worn but strong, obviously tended with care and attention, the metal greased, the linen clean, the horizon vast and empty and open. The air was crisp, frosty, making his blood run faster as he performed his daily routines in the small hours of the morning, the pale golden morning light piercing through the soft mist over the desk, and when he licked his lips he did not know whether it was salty moisture of the air, or his own sweat. It was a different kind of happiness than what he had found at Hawke’s side; but it was a happiness nevertheless.

She was the only difficult part about the journey.

He’d see her, sometimes, sitting on the upper deck on the top of captain’s quarters, legs crossed and eyes closed. If he moved to sit close, he would feel the throbbing aura of raw magic radiating from her skin, the lyrium lighting up in his veins like white-hot fire; then she’d sense him, reach out to touch him, and dismiss his sullen expression with a quip. The magic would withdraw, then, carefully folded beneath her skin, but the moment he walked away he could feel the air tingling with unspent power.

She’d talk to Varric more than she did to him, discussing people he never met and tossing about strange Fereldan names. It made him realise, for the first time in years, that the pride he took in ignoring politics was perhaps misjudged; years ago, an obedient slave would recite the names and allies of every magister in Minrathus, along with their lovers and political leanings. He kept away from the discussions and planning, confident enough that he would be asked should his input be required; in the end, Hawke always asked. But it seemed that he was more of use to Isabela than he was for them; and so he obliged, manning the sails and folding the ropes as he was told, moving across the deck in a careful pattern that allowed him to never lose sight of Hawke’s small frame on the top of captain’s quarters.

Whereas for him the perfect circle of empty horizon seemed open and free, for her it seemed to hide distant, impending danger. Several times, as he approached her in their cabin, he found her cowering in the corner in a twisted, uncomfortably bent position, her gaze fixed firmly on the line of water swaying across the bull-eye. She’d sit up as the sight of him, greet him cheerfully, and roll over the berth to curl up against him. But even her touch was empty, controlled, the magic under her skin carefully drawn back as opposed to the loose swirling aura of energy that had usually surrounded her.

Fenris found himself wishing it came back. There had been something undeniably _Hawke_ in the way the invisible currents of power had licked his body, something fickle and playful and ever so gentle; a sensation he had been so used to that it left a gaping hole in the intimacy between them. The touch was there, but it was hollow; it felt different, colder. A bitter irony, he thought, that _he_ of all men would crave his lover’s magic. He tried to mention the topic several times, but he lacked the words or the conviction, and Hawke dismissed him almost half-heartedly.

The aura would come back when she fell asleep, a familiar twirl of capricious energy that sent his senses tingling. But it felt different, more frayed, as if the denial had a destructive effect on her inner power. A blazing torch of light, restricting itself to a match; she had no staff to channel the power either, and she hadn’t practiced in days. And so the energy poured out, and the lyrium in his veins thrummed restlessly.

He found himself murmuring throaty lullabies in Tevene as she slept, digging out old, dusty memories from the days before slavery, before he got a new face and new name and new life; they felt like they belonged to another person, stripped off him and kept away for so long that he hardly recognised them as his own. Still, gentleness radiated from them, a feeling of bittersweet love and loss; he did not have many memories of gentleness to share.

“ _Tu rei na, dore na,_ ” he’d whisper, voice low and husky, with the moonbeams reflecting and splitting on the sea water through the bull-eye. A piercing, comforting thought, a sharp sense of relief as he’d found that memory in his mind, when they had been still fresh and new, soon after Hadriana had… soon after _Hadriana_. His mother’s voice, soft fingers through his hair, and a painfully prophetic syllables: _it’s not your fault, no shame._

He had overcome his own guilt. He hoped he could help her do the same.

On one of the quieter days, when the wind was scarce and the crew idle, he brought her a letter to proofread. It was a simple message to Donnic and Aveline, written with his still clumsy and graceless handwriting, but she gave him a proud smile and he felt his unease drift away. As she carefully read the parchment, shoulder to shoulder with him on their shared berth, he felt her aura ease into a familiar swirl; and for one shining moment, they were still in Kirkwall, sitting on the sofa with knees and thighs pressed close together, reading to one another the passages from Varric’s outrageous adventure stores, and Fenris was _happy._

Then she read the final paragraph, and her aura snapped shut. He almost winced at the sudden loss and followed her eyes.

_Now that the mages will be gone from Kirkwall, I hope that you can restore at least a semblance of peace._

He cursed his own stupidity. Of course, when he thought that, he did not include _her_ in that. “Hawke, I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant, Fenris.” Her voice was tired, resigned. “It’s not me personally, it’s magic in general. Believe me, I’m trying.” She passed the letter back to him and retreated into her corner, turning her face to the bull-eye. “It’s good writing. I’m proud.”

He stood there, staring at her, at a complete loss.

“Hawke, please.” He didn’t know what he was begging for, but it had been a week of ignoring the silent despair that she had been nursing, and he could not bear it any longer. It could have been such a happy time, with them all on board at sea, and even the crew members sufferable; but for all his enjoyment of the mist, the light, and the quiet whisper of the sea, her misery was a constant, unmovable thorn in the side. And now he’d made things worse. “Please.”

She looked at him, and his heart turned into a little icy pebble as he saw her empty eyes.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t shut me out.”

“I thought we agreed on not doing that. I’m fine.”

“You’re strangling yourself with your own magic.”

“I’m doing no such thing.” She turned away, bringing her impassive gaze back to the bull-eye. Hot, acidic shame burnt in his throat.

 “ _Hawke._ ”

“What do you want me to do, Fenris?” she spoke softly, but there was an underlying tremor in her voice that his ear latched onto. “I have to learn to control myself better. We’ve seen first-hand what exactly happens if a mage doesn’t.”

“You’re already in control.”

“Have you _seen_ me in Darktown that time? Was that control for you?” Her expression darkened, and for a split second Fenris was reminded of the violent spin of the white-hot flames. “I almost went full Orsino on you. Heck, I almost went full _Anders_.”

His fists clenched violently, almost of their own volition, and his stomach lurked uncomfortably. Fenris took a deep, calming breath, but it did not help.

“Do _not_ joke about it.”

“I’m not joking.” And she sat there, in the corner, eyes empty, face blank, magic twisted and knotted under her skin, and Fenris could not form words.

“You’re not… you were _not…_ ” He’d sense it. He’d know it. He’d see the change, and the bright blue Fade-light, and the poisoned energy of the spirit, she didn’t do it – her magic was hers and hers only, without a demon inside. It was _not_ true. It couldn’t, it couldn’t, it couldn’t. Not Hawke. And yet he remembered the fury of the spinning firestorm, and since that she was – _different_ -  

She saw his face and the sudden pain in her eyes made his stomach twist. “I’m not possessed, Fenris.”

He released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Why would you ever say that, Hawke? That you are like Orsino, and _him?_ ” He almost spat the last word. “You’re nothing alike. Nothing.”

“We’ve got a lot in common, surprisingly. Except that I dress better.” Her gaze wandered back to the crumpled letter in his hand, and he felt the shame rise again in his throat, hot, sick, choking. _I made her one with them. I made her think that I-_

 It was Hadriana all over again, his hot fury and enraged words, _what does the magic touch that it doesn’t spoil,_ and her eyes, widening with shock and hurt, words she’d forgiven but he’d clung to the shame of the memory for long years.

It was _not_ going to happen again. Not while he still had her in front of him. “You’re in control, and you’re strong. You are nothing like them.”

“You know what we have in common?” she said almost conversationally again, and he wanted to strangle her for the lightness in her voice, for the pretend-calm, for the way she’d tiptoe and skim over the hardest matters. He wanted to pin her down and hold till the fleeting smiles and jibes stilled into something concrete, a hard, solid source of pain he could fight. At least she’d been true before – over the fire in the Vinmark, and on the small twin bed in the forgotten fishing village.

But the next words turned his blood into ice.

“We made decisions, and people died. We didn’t kill them, not directly, but they were on the way, you know? Like a toll necessary to get to the objective. The choice of the Champion.”

 _Tu rei na, dore na._ „It’s not your fault. There’s no shame in erring.”

She let out a sharp laugh. “It is when people are dead.”

“People die, Hawke. You cannot claim responsibility for every death you come across.”

“I claim responsibility for Anders.”

He stilled, then. He had been wondering when _the mage_ would resurface in the conversation. He had suspected that was it – the solid source of all trouble.

“You’re his victim, Hawke, as is the entire city. Nothing more.”

“I encouraged him, Fenris. I listened to him speak about the mage revolution for years. I helped him find a press for his manifesto, I watched him turn radical, I was his _friend,_ and I should have-” Her face was white, piercing blue eyes fixed firmly on the bull-eye. “I should have seen that coming.”

“You trust people too much.”

She flashed an unexpected smile, piercing and sharp and painful. “Yes. I do. But that doesn’t matter, because, you know, I’m a _mage,_ and a pretty powerful one at that, and I prided myself at knowing things. And I _knew_ that what Anders asked me to do was impossible.”

The separation of spirits. The sela petrae and dragonstone. She hadn’t taken him along that time, mostly because he had vehemently contested doing the mage any shady favours. A heavy _I told you so_ hung in the air, but he chose not to say it.

“There’s no way a soul could be untangled after there has been a merging. That’s the first thing about possession. And even if there somehow were a way, somehow, figured out in Tevinter or some other similarly shady place, it would be way more complicated than gathering ingredients for _explosives._ ”

He looked at her in stunned silence. “You knew?”

“I suspected. I didn’t _want_ to know, or ask. There could be a way, a dangerous Tevinter ritual with blowing the spirit out of your mind. Something. I chose to trust him. I wanted to make sure, after all this time, that he was still someone I _could_ trust.” She flashed a pale smile. “And he, ah, blew it.”

Fenris did not smile back. “You knew.”

The smile slipped off her face, leaving her blank, empty. Even her eyes dulled, its shining blue giving way to something foggy and unfocused. “I knew.”

He was at a loss again.

There was nothing he could say.

He nodded curtly and turned around, missing the way Hawke’s eyes suddenly widened as she saw his turned back, her mouth broke open, a true terror on her face, hands scrambling to reach for something rapidly running out – and then a quiet click of the door separated them, and he left, crumbling the letter in his hand to torn shreds.

He had hoped that maybe the crunch of the paper could cover the pounding silence that followed, but he heard it all the way to the deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always had the impression that, during Anders' companion quest in Act III, if you play a mage Hawke, they are being either dumb or really, really dismissive of their own instincts. I mean, this is a known radical. And those are ingredients for a bomb. And as a mage, they should know that - along with the fact that undoing a possession is something that has never happened in the known history of Thedas, and *certainly* not by blowing stuff up. I mean... come on. If you ignore that many clues, then you'd better be prepared for consequences.
> 
> Sad, sad times.


	6. Trust issues

_Dear Aveline and Donnic-_

No. Wrong. Empty honorific. That was not how he’d speak to them, back in Kirkwall, when the world had not yet crashed around them, and they had been sitting at the Hanged Man, Aveline visibly uncomfortable with a pint in her hand, Donnic and Varric exchanging barrack stories both perhaps true and _definitely_ fictional, and Hawke – _Hawke –_

 _Aveline, Donnic, I hope this finds you safe and unharmed._ Yes, this is how he wrote it the first time.

She stopped coming out the cabin.

He broke after the first day and started wordlessly bringing her a tray with food. She accepted it, every time, with an incredibly fake pale smile, and when he came down in the evening to lay on the berth next to her, she’d pretend to sleep; but her aura was shut and clenched around her, and he did not need to see her face to know she was awake, and restless. He did not say a word.

 _She knew. She knew what the mage was planning, and she did nothing._ The knowledge sat heavy on his stomach, a sick, numbing feeling of betrayal.

A little, selfish, cowardly part of him was glad she would not emerge to the upper deck. At least on the surface, he could keep the calm; although it was becoming more and more difficult to drift off into a now-familiar routine of hoisting the sail, manning the helm, pulling the ropes, and playing cards in the down time, because the splinter of cold, icy pain woven into the very centre of his insides would not stop twisting.

She had known what she’d been helping the mage to accomplish. Had she thought about the consequences, about the very people that she was now mourning? Had she weighted their lives on the one hand, and then a chance of _the mage_ to be free of possession on the other, and had she made a – _we made decisions, and people died_ – a choice? 

The practice was no longer enough to keep his mind off it, and so he started sparring with Isabela. A circle of sailors formed around them, cheering as they charged at each other with wooden rods; she spun and danced around him, the short dagger-sized sticks brushing against his greatsword-like rod every time he parred, and he slashed and slammed his makeshift weapon into the deck so hard that the ship would shake and tilt, and Isabela’s yell “ _Trim the boat!”_ would send half the crew back on the stern, the bow bobbing uncertainly, both of them panting heavily. He was not used to continuing the fight for so long - he’d kill the rouge quickly and move on to a heavily armed opponent – but there was a strange satisfaction in that frustration, as if disturbing the body would soothe the uneasy mind, or at least work in alignment with its own disturbance.

When Isabela moved to the captain’s quarters, complaining about his excessive brutality, he’d find himself sparring partners amongst the crew. A warrior sailor named Marina – a small, broad-shouldered woman with a brown birthmark across her neck, her eyes glimmering dangerously as she offered him a duel – wielded a single heavy blade almost as effortlessly as he did, and he found a perverse pleasure in beating her into the ground with sheer force of the blow, breaking the makeshift wooden weapon in her hand on two long splinters. To his surprise, she did not stop for a second, but spun around him and slammed both pieces of the longsword into the back of his head.

He looked up to her from the ground, dazed; the cheering of the sailors so loud that it was almost deafening. She was short, dark-haired, and for a second he’d expected a familiar chirp, and a flash of healing magic to ease the pounding in his head.

“Good fight,” said Marina instead, her voice deep and rather grave.

Fenris stood up, ignoring her extended hand, nodded sharply and disappeared below deck.

As usual, Hawke was pretending to sleep.

He stared at her impassively, drinking in the details of her small form that he’d known too well, imprinted on the inner side of his eyelids every time he closed his eyes; the long, dark, messy braid, the pale-white skin, the narrow shoulders, their sharp line turning into a gentle curve of a long, slim neck; and what was inside, underneath her skin, the keen and compassionate mind, the controlled rage of a firestorm, and endless, endless power.

He had fallen in love with a _mage_.

As he stepped into the cabin, his bruised head brushed against the doorframe and he hissed with pain. Hawke moved at this sight, turned towards him. His heart lurched at the sight of her face, then twisted into a hard painful knot as he looked away.

“Are you hurt?” Short, pointed syllables. He shook his head, speechless. His hands ached to touch her. She shifted towards the edge of the berth uncertainly, her fingers twitching with restless magic.

“Did you fight? I felt the boat shaking.”

“It was just a spar,” said Fenris, fixing his eyes on the bull-eye as he felt her gaze on his face. Hawke nodded, hesitated, and moved closer to him, squinting her eyes in pain as the sore muscles, clenched and unused for days, ached at the sudden movement. Fenris knew that pain back from Danarius’ mansion, and for a second his heart shrank to a cold icy shard.

“Let me see your head.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I-” She shuddered and withdrew her hand. “Okay. As you wish. I’m going to go to sleep now.” Fenris felt a sudden urge to grab her by the shoulders, pull her, shake her out of the impasse, shake them _both_ out of that horrible, horrible stalemate that they had ended up in, because _real_ Hawke would not withdraw, _real_ Hawke would badger him until he’d actually give his head for examination, and _real_ Hawke would not – she’d _not –_ hide decisions that destroyed the city and people’s lives in it.

Instead, he watched helplessly as she turned his back at him again, shoulders shaking slightly. “Goodnight, Fenris,” she said evenly, but her voice was dead, and he felt the frustration and helplessness and _rage_ in his throat rise and crash like a caustic wave.

He turned around and slammed the door behind him.

The dwarf was waiting for him there.

“Elf,” said Varric dangerously, his eyes narrowed and sharp, “I think we need to have a little heart to heart.”

 

-/-

 

They were standing in the captain’s quarters. Isabela, always the rouge, had followed her infallible intuition for trouble and wisely removed herself. The dwarf was pacing the room impatiently; Fenris stood in front of the desk, motionless and tense.

“Now,” said Varric with a semblance of peace that did not seem to convince even himself, “What kind of screw-up did you just do, and how unfixable is it this time?”

“I did not do anything.” Fenris fixed his impassive gaze in the desk. The documents there resembled a book sketch, if he were to guess. Was that what the dwarf was doing throughout the journey?

Varric snorted. “And I’m the bloody King of Orzammar. You’re the only one that talks to her these days, elf. What happened? And I don’t care if this is private, because if your private things get the Champion of Kirkwall out for the count, then we’re _all_ in deep shit.”

Fenris clenched his fists at the title. “This is not private.”

“What is it, then? Come on, elf, spill it. The sooner we know what this is, the sooner we fix it.”

“Fix it?” Fenris let out a short bark of cold, bitter laughter. “Fix the city, then, if you’re capable. This is on her, Varric. She knew it was going to happen.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed to slits. “ _What._ ”

“She knew the ingredients for the mage were explosives, and she still decided to help him get them. She chose _him_ over everything else.” When he finally said it, pronouncing the words he had been churning for days, he felt strange heaviness. The secret was out, and so was Hawke’s fault. And yet she had pronounced her own guilt for days, and no one had believed her, _he_ had not believed her. ( _“You are the only thing worth salvaging from that city” - “Tell that to the dead behind the Veil”,_ she had said. And yet it did not make what he’d said less true. _)_

 _Tu rei na, dore na._ He swallowed with difficulty, ignoring the sting of pain as the icy shard in his chest twisted again, violently.

“Did she tell you that?” Varric’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“She did.”

“And you told her what you just said to me?”

“She knows what I think.”

The dwarf swung a fist to his face.

A sharp stab of pain pierced his already aching head. He stumbled back, markings flaring angrily; but Varric was unarmed, and he bore the true, unguarded expression of pure fury.

“You _moron,_ ” hissed the dwarf, “you absolute nug-humping _idiot_!” He stepped forward until they were chest to chest and Fenris was forced to look down. “She’s grieving after that city, and you told her she was _responsible_ for everything that happened?!”

“She is,” said Fenris coldly.

Varric slammed his fist against the desk. “That’s what _she_ thinks. Even if she hadn’t brought Blondie that bomb, he’d sooner or later pay off anyone else, and _the exact same thing_ would happen, you blithering idiot! You were meant to help her along, not crush everything, because, correct me if I’m wrong, apparently you _cared-_ ”

He stopped suddenly mid-tirade. “Ah, this is it,” he drawled. “You think she preferred to blow up the city than give up on Blondie. You utter _fool_.”

Fenris stood in front of him, refusing to look the dwarf in the eye.

“She should not have trusted the mage.”

“And is it about him, or about you? Because, and let me make this really clear for you,” Varric clenched his fists, “that second chance policy Hawke’s got going on, that’s a really good thing. She chooses to trust people. And give them another go at things they’ve screwed up before. And you might know, because if it weren’t for that, _you_ wouldn’t be here, you sorry shit-face of a partner!”

Fenris froze.

Everything, the talking dwarf included, shrank to a crystalline ice. Only the pounding in his ears increased, that drumming silence, Hawke’s silence, after he had closed the door behind him.

Now, and three years before.

After Hadriana.

A familiar burn started in his throat, sick, hot feeling, a creeping sense of inevitability, of something precious breaking hopelessly, and shame, shame, shame, shame, _shame._

He had thought the mage had not deserved her trust. That the trust had been doomed to begin with. That she was to bear the consequences of granting it so hopelessly. That would be the responsibility that he’d give himself; a punishment for trusting a mage.

And yet the trust she’s had in him was hopeless too.

(Three years _._ Of waiting, and hoping, and trusting, and he’d never given her a reason. _Three years_.)

He’d left her waiting again, now, behind the doors slammed shut by his own frustration and ignorance and _the dwarf was right, he was a moron –_ and what Isabela said, when she’d run away and left her to deal with the mess that’d stayed behind in Kirkwall, she said that Hawke took responsibility.

He became distinctly aware that Varric has stopped yelling at him. He refocused his aching eyes on the dwarf.

“Maker’s flaming ass-cheeks, you’re awful at this.” Varric pursed his lips. “ _Now_ you realise that she’s not a radical bomber? You’re supposed to be there for her, elf. She would be, for you.”

He knew that was true.

The dwarf looked at him, opened his mouth, and then closed it without saying anything. A rare sight, he thought; or maybe less rare, because for all his constant prattle Varric knew his words too well to say too much.

Fenris fixed his gaze in his feet, hot shame burning in his stomach and throat. He hated it; he hated that he’d have to be _told_ that his lover is not responsible for her grief, and that what made her break over the mage had, years ago, made her break over _him._

It was the same Hawke, the same persistent, stubborn Hawke that refused to give up on Isabela when the Qunari attacked, and him when the slavers came - and the mage, when the world was blown to flaming shreds.

“Don’t blame her for her choices, elf. You are one of them.”

Fenris cast a passing glance at the dwarf and left without a word. His throat was too thick to make a sound anyway; even if he could, he would not know what to say. He needed to get down to her, he needed to explain, he needed to make her understand that his fears and doubts and helplessness and rage would never, ever change the way she was a shining beacon of hope in his life, and he needed to… apologise. She’d forgive him. She had waited for him for too long to break now.

But he’d never lost faith in her before, and a sickly burn of uncertainty started eating through his stomach. He crossed the deck with several long strides, staring at the horizon with unseeing eyes; he needed to think, and gather his thoughts first. The pounding headache did not help, and neither did the rising swelling on his cheek. The dwarf hadn’t been holding back.

Isabela looked at him from the helm, caught the look on his face and stayed put. The sailors had gathered behind the captain’s quarters, as usual; he could hear absent-minded bidding and squabbling for coppers, and it helped him gather his thoughts. Simple, honest life. Darvin the first mate was playing an harmonica; the crewman had been trying to teach him that as well as the cleat hitches, anchor hitches, and bowlines, but whereas he’d picked up the knots easily, he’d vehemently refused to take up music.

The burning in his stomach eased slightly.

A click of the door sounded from behind him, and he wondered whether Varric would join him at the bulwark to add to his misery. He kept his head straight as he heard light feet approaching, determined not to turn around until he was forced to.

“Fenris.”

He stilled. Then, slowly, he turned until he was facing her.

Hawke had left the cabin.

Her hair was in disarray and her face was paler than the last time he had seen her outside, but she was standing straight, chin raised high, and his eyes greedily followed the lines of her throat before he sobered and looked at her face. It was like a cold chill to realise that he could not read it.

It was the face of the Champion, strong and unyielding. It had been… almost two weeks since he’d seen that face. He opened his mouth to ask, to apologise, to beg, to try and explain, but no sound came out. 

Hawke tossed him one of the wooden rods she was holding. “Spar with me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My working title is: "Chapter 6, In which Hawke stops being a whiny little drama queen, but Fenris doesn't quite catch up".


	7. Confrontation

He caught the rod in a reflex, then stepped back. “I don’t want to hurt you, Hawke.”

“Good.” She lowered her knees, grasping the long stick not at the end, but in the middle, an instinct he knew came from years of staff practice. “I wouldn’t want to cause any lasting damage either. Defend yourself.”

She couldn’t be serious.

But perhaps six years at her side could have taught him how pointless that thought was.

She took a long swing at him and he stepped back instinctively, dodging the clumsy blow. “Hawke,” he growled. “I am a lyrium warrior trained against magisters. _I don’t want to hurt you._ ”

“Really?” She swung her makeshift staff again and this time he was forced to block. “And I am one pissed off mage. See how that works out.”

Another blow pushed him further back, his feet verging at the edge of the deck. “Don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She charged at him once more and for a split second the soles of his feet found only air behind him; he swayed uncertainly and for that one sharp moment his instinct took over. The wooden rod cut the air, flying to her throat.

She blocked.

“Now that’s more like it.”  Her eyes glimmered dangerously as she closed the distance between them even further, forcing him to move away from the bulwark and to the middle of the bow. On the edge of his vision Fenris saw the mabari waiting at the main doors, eyes wary, ears flat. He hadn’t seen the beast for several days – Vindr hated ships.

Hawke took advantage of his distraction and another blow reached dangerously close before he parried it. She still hadn’t used any magic, and her aura was still snapped shut, but he doubted she could continue hacking at him for too long – she had stayed inside for days, and barely moved for all that time. Either she was going to release her powers and burn down the ship, or she’d give up out of sheer exhaustion.

Not that Hawke ever would.

They were circling each other in the middle of the ship between the masts, Hawke launching short, violent attack every couple of steps, and he parrying them with increasing weariness. “Hawke, I-”

“Spare me the bullshit,” she hissed. He stopped mid-word. “We’re fighting now.”

 _Violence, then. I do deserve it._ If she wanted to take it out on him with sheer force, they did not have to make it into a fight. He stilled, closed his eyes and waited for the next blow to hit home.

None did. When he opened his eyes, Hawke was holding the rod inches away from his cheek, her face an expression of fury he had not seen for a long, long time.

“ _Fight. Me,_ ” she growled, her shining eyes boring into his. “If you can’t respect me in combat, what respect _do_ you have for me?”

 _Every._ She withdrew her rod and stared at him with narrowed eyes. A sickly heat was spreading through his stomach – he’d failed her, and somehow now he was failing her again.

He took a measured blow at her shoulder.

She deflected, as he knew she would, and spun her staff around his weapon, hitting him in the temple. He’d expected the blow, but his head had been heavy and aching since the earlier spar, and he winced painfully.

“Don’t make it easy for me.” A short push of the rod, and he gasped for air, the wood hitting his windpipe. Instincts kicked in again, and he swung his weapon across her chest, shoving her hard to the side. If it were his greatsword, he would have slashed off her arm.

Instead, they both stumbled backwards. Behind them, the sailors had found themselves a better sundown entertainment than cards.

“Is he sparring with the Champion?”

“That’s her, alright. Ain’t she a mage?”

He could feel Isabela’s eyes boring into his back.

Hawke hit first, a nasty sideways blow. He dodged and supressed his instincts, screaming at him to strike at her undefended stomach. Instead he sidestepped another blow, quick rather than strong, and moved to her flank.

He heard a dismissive snort. “Bah! He’s pulling his punches.”

“Mind you, that’s his lover.”

“Who cares? All bets are off in a spar.”

“Stop humiliating me,” hissed Hawke through gritted teeth as they clashed again, wood against wood. “I _will_ hold my own against you, magic or no magic.”

He tightened his lips in frustration. “I’ll kill you.”

She laughed in his face, a bright, merry, cheerful sound, accompanied by a sharp staccato of quick blows. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Hawke-”

“An ogre.” _Slash._ He stepped back. “The Blight. Stone wraiths. Templars. Qunari. A fucking _dragon._ ” Each punctuated with a blow. He knew that anger, that white-hot fury that was so far away from her cheerful chirps that it went all the way around and reached it from the other side. “And you think _you’ll_ be the one to actually end me?”

He lowered his rod. “That’s what I fear,” he said in low voice, through thick and aching throat. Not in combat. But by crumbling trust, imperfect love, faith and support not given when needed the most –

“Well, check your ego then,” she growled and charged at him again. “Because I. Can. Do. _Better.”_ The makeshift staff spun in her hands and she tore through his defence, shoving him hard in the chest, and not stopping there. He saw a blow flying to his head and dodged a split second too late; the rod grazed his sore temple. He grabbed her weapon forcefully and stopped it in its tracks.

Hawke kicked him.

He blocked her foot over his own rod and tripped her. She wobbled, but stayed up; she swung the staff the other way and hit him hard in the jaw. Wincing, he squeezed hard at her wrist. The staff fell to the ground, but so did Hawke; she crouched and grabbed it back, springing back up like a cat. She flanked him again and took a swing at his right side; Fenris blocked it with ease and punched her hard in the stomach.

She groaned, and for a long second he felt the crushing guilt fall on his head like a hammer – until she slammed the staff into him, hard enough that he let out a painful grunt. “You _will_ respect me,” she said in a low voice. She panted slightly.

He was dimly aware of the cheering around him that had followed her blow.

“You don’t have to do this, Hawke. We-”

“I want to.” Another blow. He parried. He noticed her arms were shaking, and his lyrium tingled with irregular, weak stirs of magical energy in the air. Her smothered aura quivered restlessly. “I will not apologise for what I’ve decided, Fenris!”

“You don’t need to.” He locked their weapons together and dragged her close, blocking a knee flying to his groin. She recoiled quickly and grabbed the end of her rod, using the length of the weapon to put some distance between them.

 _Mistake._ One powerful blow was enough to force the stick out of her hand. She hesitated as he advanced towards her, his own weapon outstretched; she could either risk crouching down for the weapon and closing the distance between them, or lead him away.

She risked. In the second she bent down to pick up the staff, he struck a heavy blow to her side. Hawke fell to the ground, scrambling to get her balance back, but he rested the end of his rod on her chest, with just enough pressure to keep her down.

She was breathing heavily, palms clenching and unclenching in powerless anger.

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly, as if he were the one lying on the ground under the weapon. Her eyes narrowed.

“Spare me.”

“I… was wrong about you.”

“Yes. Yes, you were.” In a split second the air from his lung was gone - he was crashed against the mast with full force of a powerful psychic blast. The wood on her chest stood aflame and charred in seconds.

Hawke rose.

Her aura was back, and it lit the lyrium under his skin ablaze.

“I will _not_ apologise for trusting my friend.” She walked up to the fighting rod, picked it up, and then slammed it against the deck. He could feel the magic pushing through the crude wood, bursting through it, splitting it like a lightning, further and further until it was too much, until the rod could no longer swell with power and a white, blindingly bright column of light shot from its top. “Nor for being a mage. Nor for protecting those who had no-one to protect them. And Meredith and all the templars can go fuck themselves now.”

A dead silence, with only the constant quiet thrum of the sea-waves, answered her. Fenris closed his eyes and slumped down to the deck.

She looked at him.

“ _I_ can blame myself. But no one else has the right.”

“I… apologise,” he whispered breathlessly. He heard uncertain steps and then a soft hand touched his aching temple, making him jump and wince.

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You had it coming.”

He couldn’t stop a weak smile. “I… suppose I did.” Her hands gently shifted across his head, feeling up the swelling on his cheek, the bruised back of the head, and the radiating source of pain that he had just crashed into a mast. A spreading, soothing cool sensation followed her fingers, and Fenris let out a long breath of relief.

“I failed you. I should have known better than what your grief was telling me.”

“We all grieve in different ways,” she said, and there was a softness in her voice he had not expected. “And yours happens to be lashing out on me. It took me a while to get it.”

“I-“ He wanted to argue, but then he remembered Hadriana and – the need of hurting someone, anyone, to match his own hurt. He lowered his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Hawke.”

“Stop.” Her hands slipped through his hair down to his shoulders and tightened there, the swirling trail of lyrium coming to life under her touch. “Don’t… please don’t. Don’t submit like that. I’d never hit you, not just because I’m angry. I’m not…”

“I know.”

She lowered her temples to rest against his, her aura thrumming quietly in the lyrium of his tattoos, and he breathed - the first time in weeks, it felt like.

The blissful silence was broken by slow, deliberate clapping.

“And they call _my_ stories outrageous exaggerations.” Varric walked up to them. “When I have to downplay your life to seem believable, Hawke.”

“Varric.” She raised her head and gripped the torched wood of her rod. “I think I just made a staff.”

The dwarf grinned at her. “Of course you did, Hawke. I wouldn’t expect any less.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typical Hawke, just walking out to get some fresh air and accidentally getting involved in some epic fighting drama. Must be something genetic.


	8. Calmest before the storm

After their showdown, the crew seemed to treat the Champion with newfound respect. Several warriors offered to spar with her, and she’d accepted every challenge, much to Fenris’ dismay. She                       

In the evenings, they would gather outside, enjoying the last warm evenings of the summer, and instead of the usual oil lamps Aedale would illuminate the mast with millions of little fairy lights that spread all the way to the top. (Varric, when he saw it for the first time, shook his head and muttered something about ghost ships and cheesiness.) Isabela sat close to Hawke on those times, snickering at some inappropriate stories they were sharing, or, with half-lidded eyes locked on the horizon, talking about the sea. Fenris did not interrupt, contenting himself to listening to the familiar buzz of the conversation, with a word or two every once and again bobbing up to the surface of the smooth, comforting white noise. Varric sat with them and listened, and wrote; at one time, Aedale caught the view of the carefully embellished title of  “The Tale of the Champion,” and badgered him long enough that he let her read the first chapter aloud.

The entire crew gathered for that, and Aedale thrived in the attention as she read out the story of a strange hero that was – seemed to be – her, but also not her: stronger, tougher, more confident. Varric supplied the voice of Carver; Isabela, making the most sour and threatening face she could twist her features into, read Aveline’s lines. When Fenris was asked to do ser Wesley, his first instinct was to scoff and deny; but then he looked at Hawke’s face, lightened up and blushed with excitement, and – hesitantly, with a finger following the lines with uncertainty – he read out the words of the long-dead Templar. Isabela seemed to take all too much of pleasure in acting out Aveline’s gushing love confessions towards him, and then, finally, did a dramatic re-enactment of Wesley’s death. Fenris rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest, and the sighs from the gathered audience made him feel strangely proud.

He finished off the letter to Donnic and Aveline, and Aedale put it together with hers, sealing them both in a big, sturdy envelope that had a chance of surviving the journey to Kirkwall.

She had changed, he could see that clearly, but it was not a harmful change anymore; she’d talk to people, laugh, and fight, torture their ears with the harmonica, and when he reached out to touch her, his fingers immersed in the warm, crackling magical energy before he touched the skin. And yet the energy was different; it was quieter, more concentrated, and whereas before she’d fight with fire and ice and lightning, on the ship she’d restrict herself to the spirit magic, less flashy and more controlled. (It could, also, relate to the fact that Isabela had a few choice words for her after a careless spell singed the boom of the sail.) There was more thought behind the instinct, more careful deliberation, however relaxed and at ease she seemed.

In the night, as he held a protective hand across her stomach, listening to her deep, even breaths, he could feel the uneasy fluctuations of magic underneath her skin; a deeply coiled cocoon of guilt, remorse, and regret, radiating with the sorrowful chill. He knew what was causing it: there was a carefully folded piece of paper she always carried close to the chest, with a long list of names.

It made him think of the men and women he knew in Seheron. They’d taught him how to weave ropes, and hunt, and make bombs that spilled thick white fog amongst the trees; and which vines to cut to get a dripping white balm, in which they would cover their palms and faces, disappearing in the smoke like silent spectres. Hyruna, the old fog dancer of the tribe, had pressed his wrinkled hand onto his tattoos and told him – pointedly not noticing his shaking at the touch, _he had been a slave for all his life_  – that he was marked to be one of them, a white ghost in the white, fearless and fearsome.

When he’d been killing his tribe one by one, a slave caught back on his leash and pointed forward, Hyruna had not tried to engage him. He’d lunged straight at Danarius.

After years and years and years, the mechanic blow that slashed the fog dancer’s throat remained one of the things Fenris could remember with perfect, torturous clarity.

He pressed his chest tightly against Hawke’s small frame. She moved in her sleep, her hand finding its way to her stomach, where his palm was still resting protectively; her fingers curled around his, and Fenris breathed out a shaky breath.

He understood responsibility. 

The ship was rocking softly, the line of water against the bull-eye swaying in gentle undulating pattern.

 

-/-

 

“Do we have to do this now?” whined Aedale. Isabela sidestepped her, swatting her bum as she walked away.

“Yes. No arguing from land rats.” 

“It just feels so pointless,” said Hawke, shooting the pirate’s back a dirty look. “We could be in Denerim in four days’ time. Aren’t you best buds with the other pirates anyway?”

“I am _not_ passing Brandel’s Reach without getting word first, honey”, said Isabela without turning around and disappeared below deck. Aedale shrugged and went up to the helm, where Darvin the first mate was quietly staring in the horizon, seemingly completely content with not doing and saying anything at all.

“I just don’t see the point. We’re losing an entire day just because she wants to dock and ask around.”

Darvin looked at her, then back at the horizon ahead. He adjusted the course slightly. “She’s got her reasons, Champion.”

“They don’t hold up. And just ’Hawke’ will do, thanks.” She slumped to the ground next to him. “We could take on any raider team we wanted. And it’s not like it’s a given they’ll be there. We really don’t need to go and announce that we’re passing”

“It’s what the folk do.”

“See? So you’re friends. Isabella could just wave at the raiders and be like ‘hey, remember me, buddy? Sure you do, would you mind not raiding?’ And then we’d move on.” She picked up a loose end of the rope locked in a capstan and started clumsily making a bowline knot – the one that Isabella had hammered into her head in a rare attempt to respect safety. “I don’t think this qualifies as a get-out-of-the-boat emergency. We have important business to do in Denerim.”

“We’ve been on sea for almost three sevendays now,” observed Darvin absent-mindedly. “Strange moment to get itchy.”

“We haven’t exactly been wasting time until now.”

“We ain’t going to waste time. It’s what’s done.”       

“Yee-ah, I’m not the greatest fan of _what’s done_ ,” said Aedale, dropping the butchered knot on the deck and standing up. “Worst come to worst, I’ll set their ships aflame. Shouldn’t be more difficult than a dragon.”

Darvin shot her a look of equal curiosity and incredulousness, but then just shrugged. “You really don’t get it, do you.”

“Honour amongst pirates? Unspoken rules of a cutthroat community? Being territorial? Oh, I get it.” Aedale waved dismissively. “Just don’t care. Believe me, I have bigger things to worry about right now.”

“Aye, but some of us have to stick to the small picture.” Darvin looked back at the horizon. “You’ll be gone soon, Champion. But the raiders of Brander’s Reach ain’t. Burning a ship or two won’t change it for us, except that we’ll be the poor sods taking the fallout.”

Aedale opened her mouth and hesitated. She had no reply for the rebuke.

“Just Hawke, please.”

Darvin shrugged.

Aedale stared at the horizon. _The choice of the Champion._ She wondered how many other times she was being given a choice, and chose the easier option, too short-sighted to see the consequences; and how many lives were touched by it, directly or indirectly. _The grasp on the neck of Destiny, or just tearing through the fates of millions, oblivious to the damage?_ A wreath of blond hair flashed in her memory, _Anders_ , and she blinked the spectre away.

“Do we know where we dock?” she said, accepting the defeat.

“Amaranthine, wind permitting.”

Another ghost from the past, it seemed. “I had a friend who stayed there for a while. He said he was travelling with the Queen of Ferelden.”

Darvin let out a short bark of laughter. “Aye, and who hasn’t? Captain did too, and her slut Antivan friend, and his dog. People sell her hair and bedsheets all over the place, you’d have thought she’s a furry sloth demon.”

“Yeah, but he was a Grey Warden there. So.” It was her time to shrug, with a little bit of smugness on her face.

“He dead?” asked Darvin, with what had to be the sailors’ idea of subtlety. Aedale shook his head.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s tough life for those in the Grey,” he said with more sympathy. Hawke nodded, breathing evenly to warm up her aura, cooled down unpleasantly by the mention of Anders. Darvin turned his eyes back to the horizon and for a long while they just stood there, side by side, in what Aedale found a strangely easy camaraderie.

“Laaaaaaaand-ho!” yelled someone at the bow. Varric popped his head out of the captain’s quarters.

“Are we there yet? I’m not even halfway through act two.”

“Go back to your muse, we’re still _hours_ away from even seeing it properly,” said Aedale above his head, but her heart jumped and lurched. She had not seen Ferelden since the Blight.

Varric tilted his head upwards to see her. “Hey, Chuckles, excited about getting home?”

“I’ll have you know that the arling of Amaranthine is about halfway across the country from Lothering,” said Aedale, adopting her best snooty voice. “Get your maps straight.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Should be the same dogshit brown all over. You’ll feel right back at home.”

“That explains why you love all your caves and tunnels so much. Same dwarfey stuff.”

Varric winced at the mere memory of it. “Wasn’t born there. For all the casts think, I could just as well be a really short human. Anyway, let me know when we’re out of here. I’d love me some solid ground.”       

His head disappeared back inside, and Aedale stepped away from the edge, facing Darvin again. “So, about that harmonica…” she said conversationally. “I think I’m starting to get the _Antivan Ladies_ just fine.”

The sailors on deck rushed to safety.

-/-

At dusk, the small strip of land they were seeing in the south grew into recognisable features of the coast. Varric stared at it longingly; even Vindr dragged himself outside from the belly of the ship and, with his snout pointed south, howled with wistful nostalgia.

“Oi! Champion! Keep your beast quiet, will ya?” shouted one of the sailors at the bow, as they shifted away from the melancholic dog. Aedale shrugged.

“He’s Fereldan. You lot are surprised? I’m shocked he’s not howling the national anthem.”

“That’s Amaranthine,” said Isabela, during the one of the few occasions when she was manning the helm herself. “That thing on the right. We’re aiming to get there by morning, with this wind. If it changes, we go to Forthing instead, and ride to the city. Will be quicker that way.”

“Any reason why?”

Isabela rolled her eyes. It was Fenris who answered, after a long pause: “The wind from the north-east would push us to the land and away from Denerim. Better to wait it out on land if we must dock anyway.”     

“Ah.” Aedale stared at the coast covered in mist. “Should we just travel on horseback from that point on, provided that the wind changes? There shouldn’t be more than two days’ ride from Amaranthine to Denerim. I’m imagining the Pilgrim’s Path is well suited for fast travel.”

“Used to be,” said Isabela grimly. “Now you have to count in the darkspawn and bandits still running about after the Blight. It’s a trading nightmare.”

“Shall I do that?” Aedale looked at her friends, a new plan hatching. “Even with the darkspawn I can get there faster on land. Worst case scenario, I’ll meet with you here in a sevenday.” _Hopefully having informed the monarchs of Ferelden about what happened in Kirkwall before anyone else managed to._

Isabela did not look impressed. “I don’t like splitting up, Hawke.” A shadow of worry crossed her face, and Aedale wondered whether she thought this was a final goodbye, the kind that Aveline and Merrill had said only weeks before. “You won’t be here in a sevenday.”

“Highly likely,” agreed Aedale easily. “You can chase us to Denerim and then we’ll sail back to the Free Marches together, after I’ve secured some sort of deal for the mages. If you prefer that. Fenris?”    

 “It’ll get you to Denerim faster,” stated the elf matter-of-factly. “I’m coming with you.”

Isabela looked at them both and then sighed. “I’ll catch up with you in the city, then. Leave a message at the Hungry Nobleman if you leave before me.”

Aedale swallowed the guilt that this simple request evoked – _this_ is _goodbye, then –_ and smiled, with a big and fake grin. “I’ll say hi to your royal friends there.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Isabela’s face was still, and Aedale did not dare joke any further. She and Fenris exchanged glances and walked off the helm, towards the starside.

The land was looming close, a strip of black in the darkening horizon. A few distant lights, pale and tiny like dying sparks, lit up amongst the shadows.  

“The world is so much bigger than Kirkwall,” said Fenris quietly. “Somehow we all managed to forget it.”

-/-

They moored the ship before dawn. Aedale was dimly aware of the shouting and barking short, pointed commands as she awoke early in the morning, the spot at her side still warm, but empty. The cabin’s rocking was definitely less pronounced.

Just like Isabela said, it was Forthing, not Amaranthine; a little fishing village west from the city, with little more than a dock, a tavern, and a humble looking Chantry. From what she remembered of the long, hushed conversations between her parents – all the way back to Lothering, and before – this was what Amaranthine itself used to be, too, before the Orlesian invasion. They used to live somewhere in the arling, or so she had been told – one of the many places Malcolm Hawke had carried his wife and young child in his endless run from the Templars.

When she walked out on the deck, the sailors were just finishing off the mooring, Isabela already on land. She was eyeing the entire ship carefully. Varric was at her side, stretching languidly.

“Morning, Chuckles. You missed all the shouting.”

“I didn’t, else I wouldn’t be up at this hour.” Aedale rolled her eyes. She jumped off the deck onto the pier and wobbled uncertainly, trying to stay upright on a hard unmoving surface. _Damn those sea legs._ “Well, last time I saw Amaranthine, it was definitely… bigger.”

Isabela made a face. “Wind changed in the middle of the night, blew us straight into the coast. Talk about tough luck.”

Fenris finished off folding the ropes in a neat, even hoops, hanged it on the hook at the side of the captain’s quarters, and jumped off to join them. He, as Aedale noticed with an inner sigh, did not wobble.

The four of them stood in silence for a short while, staring at the ship and the sea. Isabela was focused and intent, keen on making sure the mooring was perfect; Varric was clearly relieved to stand on something solid; Fenris stood at her side, his fingertips brushing her arm. She was thankful for that small gesture of support.

Aedale swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Something told her that she would not stand with those people for a long, long time.

A scream tore through the air.

**-/-**

**END OF PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we’ve arrived at the end of part one! Originally written together with the Antebellum, it was split because the story grew too long and too opaque without a clear division. This one covers the personal fallout of the Kirkwall battle – the next one will be enlarging the scope to see what exactly our heroes missed during their sea journey. Expect some familiar faces from the previous games: a wise old mage, a grumpy noble Warden, and perhaps even a glimpse of the Queen… Thank you so much for being with me thus far, and I invite you to read on!
> 
> **[Part II: Antebellum](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8446606/chapters/19351867) **


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